Zaida turned to Ben who’d listened politely at first, but was now transfixed. ‘Young men had to do twenty-five years’ military service – and very few Jews ever came home after it. I had no money or papers – I was only wearing a ragged shirt.’ He looked down at his Sabbath suit. ‘My father took off his greatcoat, put it over my shoulders, gave me a few kopeks and a loaf of rye bread, and told me to go to my oldest sister, Mariashe.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘I’d never even seen her. She left home for England before I was born.’
Hetty stood listening, though she must have heard it all before. But Ben was staggered. ‘How did you manage with no money?’ he asked. ‘Did the soldiers catch up with you?’
Sinking into the easy chair, Zaida told Ben about the long, difficult journey to England, taking over a year, and from there later to Ireland. Along the way his tailoring skills earned him a little money, and he also did farm work, often sleeping in haybarns with the animals.
During Zaida’s story, when his English failed him, he had to put in the odd Yiddish word. Zaida was still recounting it when Mr Golden descended the stairs. ‘Come, Papa,’ he said gently, ‘it’s time for the service.’
Zaida looked round vaguely, as though he had just returned from a journey and wasn’t sure where he was. As his son took his arm, he said uncertainly, ‘Of course, we mustn’t be late for the synagogue.’ He smiled at Ben regretfully. ‘I’ll tell you more, young man, another time.’ Putting on his worn greatcoat he added: ‘This coat – it’s the one my father gave me. He made it himself.’
As they left, Ben drew a deep breath: so that’s how people became refugees. He thought of the girl on the run. His eyes met Hetty’s and he saw that her normally hostile expression had vanished, if only for a moment, and a kind of spark flamed between them, a newfound link, across the barriers that divided them.
15
The Barmitzvah
In the Golden household the battle about Mabel’s future raged, while Da, when he was not at work or prayer, kept out of the way. Despite Mabel’s scholarship to the secondary school, and even with help from Uncle Sam and a little from Zaida, money was still very tight, and the price of kosher food was going up, along with everything else.
One evening, a week before Eddie’s Barmitzvah, Mabel told Hetty that Carmel and Maureen had offered to bring her to see their cousin Sadie at work in the Monument Creamery. At the time Mabel was lying prone on the bed, her face gleaming white as a ghost as she applied Pond’s 7-day Cold Cream Beauty Treatment which Alison had given her, swearing it would do wonders for her skin.
‘Er, Hetty,’ she asked, barely moving her lips because of the cold cream, ‘will you come with me? You could help me persuade Ma and Da to let me work there.’
Hetty, deep in her library book, The Scarlet Pimpernel, was taken aback. ‘What about Michael, the medical student? Wouldn’t he disapprove?’
‘He needn’t know,’ said Mabel, adding bitterly, ‘anyway, when he saw me at the tennis competition in Carlisle on Sunday he didn’t even come over, just threw me a sort of casual wave, like you’d throw a dog a bone.’
‘I told you so,’ said Hetty smugly. She turned a page. ‘All right, I’ll come if you promise not to go on about everyone’s boyfriend.’
Mabel started to say, ‘What else is there…?’ but the cold cream had stiffened her face and she could barely move a muscle. Hetty sniggered as she went back to her book.
But the next day Mabel happened to call in to Carmel when her cousin, Sadie, was visiting. Asked about the Monument, she’d declared, ‘The work’s desperate, half-eight to six, on your feet all day, and the pay’s no good.’ Looking strained, she added, ‘You get a bit of butter and a few eggs, but the manageress tells you off if you even chat for a minute.’
After that, Mabel muttered, ‘Maybe I’ll try the typing or the tailoring.’
***
Then, suddenly it seemed to Hetty, preoccupied with finding Renata and with thoughts of Ben, Eddie’s Barmitzvah was upon them, with the Passover festival coming up soon after.
Da found some overtime work, and Ma got busy altering a frock of Mabel’s for Hetty. It was an unbecoming shade of greyish brown satin called ‘mole’, and had puff sleeves. Ma added pearl buttons and a Peter Pan collar from Cassidy’s ‘to give it a lift’, as she put it. To Hetty these additions made the dress even more revolting. Everyone, she complained, even Solly in his little blue baby suit, looked better than her.
But on the big day, in the Greenville Hall Synagogue – now repaired – everyone watched Eddie, in a white prayer cap embroidered with silver thread by Bobba, his new long trousers covering his leg-iron, recite the portion of the Talmud, the Holy Law, following the Hebrew words on the ancient parchment scroll with a long silver instrument shaped like a pointing finger. His Da and Zaida stood beaming beside him and even Hetty felt a swell of pride in her cousin.
At the celebration dance that evening in the synagogue hall everyone rushed to congratulate the family and wish them Mazal tov. Ma, Bobba and Aunt Millie sat in a row, dressed in their best. As the mother of the Barmitzvah boy, Aunt Millie wore a long lime-green satin dress and stylish matching hat. Beside them, Hetty frowned as the guests waltzed and fox-trotted to Minda Myers’ band. Mabel sat miserably in her blue taffeta dress, having spent hours – on Alison’s advice – applying Vaseline to her eyelashes and rinsing her hair three times in lemon juice and vinegar to make it shine before curling it. But despite it all, she was being ignored by Michael Simons.
Things brightened up when he finally strolled over to invite a blushing Mabel to dance, and Eddie, scrubbing his face with his handkerchief to remove the scarlet lipsticked kisses planted on his cheeks by his joyful female relations, came to sit beside Hetty.
‘Any news?’ he asked quietly.
‘No,’ she hissed. ‘We must do something.’
‘Da says she’s gone to ground. No one can find her.’
An obstinate look, well-known to Eddie, came over Hetty’s face. ‘We will find her,’ she whispered fiercely.
The music stopped and Michael Simons returned Mabel speedily to her seat, and then strode off without a word.
Hetty, furious, had her mouth open to make a rude remark about him when Bobba said sharply to Mabel, ‘That young man is too full of himself.’ She sniffed. ‘You should find a nicer boy.’
Mabel, her head bent, burst into tears. ‘But he’s a medical student,’ she wailed. Everyone fussed around, offering her glasses of water or Ciderette. As Mabel’s friend, Rebecca, rushed over to comfort her, Bobba murmured approvingly to Hetty, ‘I don’t think you’ll be taken in by someone like him!’
Zaida, sitting across the table, reached over to pat Mabel’s cheek. ‘Never mind that boychik,’ he murmured gently. ‘What really matters is that we’re all here on this solemn but happy day – and our Eddie has become a man!’
Hetty, catching Eddie’s eye, managed to suppress a giggle as she whispered, ‘Plus, our Eddie’s getting sloppy kisses, lots of hugs and pats on the back, and’ – she paused wickedly – ‘presents.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Eddie whispered back, ‘but the presents are mostly religious books, prayer shawls and a fountain pen. Not one model aeroplane!’
16
The Football Match
The spring of 1941 came late, but finally a froth of pink and white blossom appeared, gardens were filled with daffodils and then scarlet tulips, and in the early morning before the siren summoned workers to the factories and his father slammed the door on his way out, Ben could hear the sweet singing of sparrows and blackbirds.
His spirits rose. He’d got a job cleaning out a neighbour’s yard, and another from the Goldens’ Uncle Sam humping a wheelbarrow full of evil-smelling horse manure collected from the roadway for the potatoes in the front garden of his house. As Uncle Sam paid him, they surveyed the drooping plants. ‘A fat lot of use these’ll be for feeding us through the Emergency, even with the manure,’ he sighed. ‘B
ut they’ve told us to grow food, so that’s what I’m trying to do.’
Granny was in better form, and Dad paid a rare visit to Mam in Crooksling, though he went straight to the pub on his return and came back very late. A few days earlier Uncle Matt had told Ben that he’d discouraged Sean from reporting the refugee. ‘I warned him to stay out of it,’ he reassured Ben. ‘I think he’ll drop it now.’
Ben, however, knowing Sean as he did, had his doubts.
In fact, Ben had heard nothing more about the mysterious refugee and wondered had Hetty and Eddie been to Dalkey. What he couldn’t forget was that stirring, wordless look between himself and Hetty at the end of Zaida’s story. Did it mean they might become friends? That she’d trust him – though why should she? Or was it just a passing glance, meaning nothing? He’d never had a girl as a friend before and the idea excited him, though it scared him too.
***
The weather changed. On a gusty, showery Sunday afternoon Ben and Smiler were sitting on the windowsill of Number 19 looking through William and ARP, which Ben had borrowed from the library.
Nothing much was happening in the wet street, but then Sean appeared and said carelessly, ‘Er, Billy’s sick. We were goin’ to see Rovers playing Shels at Milltown. Youse two want to come?’ They didn’t have to think twice. Ben rushed to get his raincoat, gave a shout upstairs to Granny, got two pence off Dad who was snoozing in the súgán chair, then, perched precariously on the crossbar, with Smiler on the back carrier, Sean zoomed off before anyone tried to stop them.
Bumping along, clutching tightly to the handlebars, Ben remembered Sundays in past years, when Dad used to take them to matches at Milltown. On the way home, weary and happy, Dad would crack jokes and they’d argue about the game – every goal, every penalty, every save.
In recent times, although Sean still went with his friends, somehow the heart had gone out of those matches for Ben, like so much since Mam had got sick. But now things were looking up. Soon Mam would be home, and Dad would cheer up and bring them again like he used to.
As they approached Glenmalure Park the crowd swelled to thousands, a sea of faces, mostly men and boys in caps and raincoats walking up towards the football ground. Hundreds of bikes were parked four-deep against the wall all along the road. They parked Sean’s bike near a group of women with boards balanced on old prams and heaped with fruit, calling, ‘Get yer apples, two fer a penny.’
The turnstile was jammed with people. None of the three of them had the necessary sixpence to get in, so they burrowed into the crowd of boys, all supposedly under fourteen and hoping to get in free, begging the adults, ‘Gi’e us a lift.’ Smiler, the smallest of the three, was obligingly hauled over the gate, leaving Sean and Ben in the crowd outside.
As Sean pleaded loudly, the man at the gate said, ‘Will you go away out o’ that, the last time you saw fourteen was on the back of a bus!’ There was a roar of laughter, and the crush got thicker as people pushed from behind. Ben, separated from both Sean and Smiler, was about to give up and plod home, the chances of an exciting afternoon receding, when a familiar voice called his name. He whirled round to see Eddie Golden grinning at him, and behind him his father.
‘Hey, you can come in the stand with us,’ said Eddie. ‘My Da’s a member.’
Ben was flabbergasted. He knew Eddie supported Shamrock Rovers and sometimes went to matches, but he never thought they’d be members of the club. ‘Er, well …’ he muttered, ‘there’s me brother, and Smiler …’
‘Fine,’ said Uncle Sam, ‘plenty of room.’ Ben called Sean, then Uncle Sam showed his card, the attendant pressed the pedal to release the turnstile, and in a flash the boys were through.
Sean, recognising Uncle Sam and Eddie from the bombing, hesitated about going to the stand, and so did Ben. But Smiler joined them, and grinning from ear to ear hissed: ‘C’mon! The stand, for free! What’re we waiting for?’
***
In the stand, supporters of both sides were crowded together on the terraces, music was playing, and, led by Sean, the boys squeezed and wriggled their way close to the pitch. The Rovers players, in their distinctive white jerseys with green hoops, ran from the corner pavilion through a gap made by the crowd. A deafening cheer went up, and everyone shouted, ‘C’mon on, Jimmy!’, ‘Go for it, Paddy.’ The Shelbourne players followed, to a smaller cheer. This was Rovers’ home ground after all.
Play was fast and furious, and as the referee blew his whistle for half-time, Ben, at his first match for a year, was in seventh heaven. The cheering, booing, insults and slagging were music to his ears. But Sean grumbled, ‘No goals.’
‘Still, great save by Larry Palmer,’ replied Eddie, ‘when he was at the edge of the box and the ball was lobbed over him and the other crowd all shouted “Goal!”, but he got back and saved it!’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Sean, taken aback, Ben noticed, by Eddie’s enthusiasm.
‘Er, d’you play yerself?’ Sean asked Eddie. Ben, realising that Eddie’s leg-iron was hidden by his new long trousers, glanced at him anxiously. But Eddie said casually, ‘I used to play, before’ – he hesitated, looking down at his leg – ‘before I got polio. I usually played in goal.’ He grinned. ‘I was never much good.’ Sean stopped short at the mention of polio.
As play re-started the rain grew heavier, the pitch muddier, the heavy leather ball more sodden, the players more weary – and still no goal. The crowd never tired, with cheers or catcalls for the players and torrents of abuse for the referee.
Frustration was starting to build up, suddenly defused by a shout of laughter from the players, the crowd and even the referee, when a Shels player ran flat out down the pitch chasing the ball – which he had no chance of catching – and a voice cried out, ‘Open the gates!’
‘Ten minutes to go,’ called out a Shels supporter beside them. ‘Better get a move on.’
‘I was hoping for a bit more magic from Paddy Moore,’ said Sean.
‘Yeah, he’s usually brilliant,’ agreed Eddie. ‘Easily the best centre forward in the league.’
‘And what about Jimmy Dunne?’ put in Smiler. ‘He’s played for Sheffield United, and Arsenal.’
‘Well, neither of them’s any use now,’ said Sean. ‘We must be mad standing out here, getting drenched, to watch this rubbish. Rovers are useless today!’
But Ben thought this was the best Sunday he’d had for ages. All his troubles had melted away – his mam, his dad, the Goldens, the refugee, even Hetty, in the magic of the game. He looked up for a moment at the dark clouds above moving to shut out a stray beam of sunshine. For some reason, a shiver ran through him.
And in the next instant Paddy Moore streaked through the defence, lashed a vicious shot and, as they collectively held their breaths, slammed in a glorious goal, right in front of their eyes.
The crowd went mad, Ben, Smiler, Sean and Eddie with them. Arms around each others’ shoulders they sang, cheered and shouted till they were hoarse. Even the Shels supporters had to admire the skill of that goal.
They were all grinning when they rejoined Uncle Sam, and so was he. They said their farewells, and even Sean thanked him enthusiastically.
‘It’s the Passover festival next week,’ Uncle Sam told them, ‘but maybe we’ll do this again before the season ends.’ And shaking hands with all of them, he went off with Eddie.
They wobbled home on the bike, avoiding the tram tracks and puddles, reliving every detail of the match at the tops of their voices.
‘Er, that uncle of theirs,’ Sean jerked his head towards the Goldens’ house as they turned into Martin Street, the setts gleaming from the rain, ‘he’s not a bad fella.’ He grinned at Ben. ‘All the same, better not tell Dad!’ And Ben, relieved, grinned back.
As Sean slowly pedalled up the road with the others walking alongside, Ben noticed a figure outside their house. It was Dad, in his Sunday suit, which he usually changed out of after Mass, and he seemed to be waiting for them. It looked like something was
wrong. Maybe he’d found out about Ben’s job.
When they reached him, Ben saw that his face was sombre, and his eyes puffy and bloodshot. Instead of shouting at them, he said nothing, just cleared his throat and swallowed. A terrible fear spread through Ben.
Sean said, ‘Dad, what is it, what’s happened?’
Dad cleared his throat again.
Sean almost shouted, ‘Dad!’
In a low voice, Dad said finally, ‘It’s – Mam.’
‘Is she worse?’ said Sean with increasing urgency. ‘Has she taken a turn?’
‘Your mam …’ Dad paused, and in that moment of silence Ben knew.
Mam had died, and he would never see her again.
17
My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress
At the house a black-edged card had been pinned to the front door to tell neighbours the news. Granny, waiting inside, held the boys close, wordlessly.
Relations arrived – Uncle Matt, his eyes red, gripping Ben’s and Sean’s shoulders and saying over and over again, ‘Poor lads, poor lads’; Auntie Bridie, bringing an enormous parcel of sandwiches and cake into the kitchen, kissing them, their faces made damp by her tears.
17 Martin Street Page 9