“Those are important things, too,” Orla agreed. “But not for me, that’s all. My own calling has been clear to me for some years now, Mary, and it’s what I said, to teach science and free the African people through education. To give them an equal status, if you want to put it like that, with Western man.”
“It sounds exciting,” Mary said, half enviously.
“Oh, it will be hard work,” Orla said matter-of-factly. “But I need to make my life count, you see. Mother Teresa, Albert Schweitzer, Doctor Bernardo – those are the people I admire. If I can do even a small part of the sort of things they’ve done, I can be at peace.”
“It’s all to do with believing in God, isn’t it?” Mary asked tentatively.
“I suppose, if you believe in Him, everything is about that,” Orla said.
“I don’t really know if I do believe or not.”
Orla said nothing and Mary went on thinking aloud.
“I know I used to believe when I was small. About nine or ten. Then I seemed to lose it somehow. I don’t think I ever thought about it even. I just drifted out of believing for no real reason.”
“It seems a big decision to reach at so young an age,” Orla remarked teasingly. “Haven’t you ever thought it out again since you grew up?”
“I suppose I haven’t. I don’t know much about it. What are the reasons for believing? Why do you believe, Orla?”
Orla paused for a moment and looked at Mary.
“I haven’t always believed. About five years ago, if you had asked me, I would have said much what you’ve just said, Mary.”
“And what made you change?”
Orla thought again.
“I suppose, when I started to think about it, I couldn’t make any sense out of life in any other way.”
Mary was silent.
“Have you read anything about it?” Orla asked presently. “‘Mere Christianity’, by C.S.Lewis, for instance? I could lend you that, if you like.”
“Oho,” said Mary, “indoctrination, now?”
“No indoctrination,” Orla said, unperturbed. “The offer stands. But if you want the book, you’ll have to ask me for it now after that crack.”
“Well,” said Mary, “is it very boring? And all about keeping to the rules? That’s never been my sort of thing, you know.”
Orla laughed suddenly. “Rules don’t come into it, Mary. It’s about learning to be your real self, about knowing the Person who made you the way you are. And I don’t think you’d find it boring.”
“Okay, then,” said Mary quickly before she could change her mind, “I suppose it’s only fair to give it a go. Could you lend me it next time we meet?”
Orla nodded gravely. “Let’s turn back now,” she said. “We might have time for a cup of coffee before the lecture.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sheila floated down Grafton Street with her head in a whirl. She found it hard to keep from breaking into a run or starting to skip.
All around her were the noises of Dublin.
The strange accents, the voices which seemed louder, echoed in her ears.
A flower seller sat at the entrance to a side street surrounded by enormous bunches of flowers stuck into buckets of water.
In a shop doorway, a group of young men played popular music with an open guitar case on the ground beside them for contributions from the passers-by.
The glittering shop windows were full of exciting things: perfume, clothes, books.
She wasn’t going anywhere in particular – that was one of the best things about it. They had arrived in Dublin a few hours earlier and booked into the Gresham Hotel in O'Connell Street. Then, after lunch, Delmara had said,
“I won't need you this afternoon, Sheila. Have a rest, or go and sight-see – whatever you like. Be here at six, okay? I have plans for tonight.”
So here she was, on her own in Dublin, free as a bird and feeling as if she was fifteen again.
Why was Dublin so much more exciting than Belfast? Perhaps only because it was strange and new.
She darted into the nearest shop, which happened to be Brown and Thomas’, and began to examine the clothes on display.
There were French perfumes on one counter and Sheila sprayed herself lavishly with the free tester of Chanel No.5.
Then she picked out three dresses which caught her fancy and wandered over to the changing rooms to try them on.
Time went past quickly.
Sheila bought herself a cup of coffee in Bewley’s, going upstairs so that she could sit in the window and look out at the crowds in Grafton Street.
She felt sophisticated and adult, a woman of the world, as she leaned back in the rickety wooden backed chair and stirred her coffee.
A glance at her watch told her that it was time to go back to the Gresham.
In fact, she might have to run if she didn’t take care. Delmara had plans for tonight – it was important that Sheila didn’t cause him any hassle by being late.
In the four months since she had signed her contract, Sheila had already learnt that Francis Delmara was a man to be taken seriously. As her boss, he sometimes seemed a completely different person from the man who had pursued her so light-heartedly from their first meeting.
She hurried back over O’Connell Bridge and was relieved to find that she reached the hotel with ten minutes to spare.
Delmara was in the reception lounge, sitting elegantly at ease in one of the enormous, comfortable chairs, and chatting with two men, when Sheila, strolling casually and with her breath under control, appeared.
“Ah, Sheila, beautiful,” he greeted her. “Perfect timing, as always.”
He rose to his feet and came over to her.
“Let’s go into the bar,” he said, “and have a drink while I explain my plans for this evening.” He waved casually by way of farewell to the two men and steered Sheila into the cocktail bar.
Presently they were seated in a secluded corner with Brandy Alexanders before them.
“Now,” began Delmara, “I want fashionable Dublin to be talking about you before the show opens, precious. So tonight I plan to introduce you to some quite important people. First of all, we'll attend a preview of Sebastian O’Rourke’s new exhibition of paintings in the Charlton Gallery. Then we’ll move on to a party some friends of mine are throwing where all the right people will be making an appearance.
The important thing is that you should look good. I’ll manage it so that you can make a grand entrance and set people talking. I know exactly what I want you to wear – but be warned, darling, guard it with your life! If a single spot, smear or rip appears on that gown, I’ll have you out sweeping the streets tomorrow. Only joking, love,” he added quickly, as Sheila’s eyes grew large in amazement, “I’m letting you wear one of my new models for the sake of the advance publicity. I want your picture in every newspaper tomorrow on the front, and the name of Delmara Fashions beside it.”
Sheila smiled. “It sounds a good idea, Francis, but suppose no-one wants to take my photograph?”
“I’m not worried about that, beautiful. When they see you, they’ll be knocked for six, no question. Now you see why I wanted you back in good time. Drink up and we’ll go and start work. It’ll take a couple of hours at least to get you ready.”
Sheila sipped her Brandy Alexander cautiously. “Maybe I should eat something,” she ventured. “I don't want to pass out on you.”
“A good point. Let’s get something now.” He clicked his fingers at the barman and ordered open sandwiches for both of them.
“Just tell me when you’re ready, Sheila,” he said, leaning back in a typically relaxed poise. But Sheila could see the tension vibrating through him beneath the surface.
Afterwards, she could look back and appreciate how skilfully Delmara had stage managed the evening.
First there was the dress.
A dream of a dress.
Long, slender, clinging, in a soft silky material, in pure silver,
with a back and cleavage which plunged to the limit and then some.
Chrissie, who worked at the dress shows, was on hand to do Sheila’s hair in the simplest of styles so that her mass of red gold curls hung down her back almost to the low backed dress, and with a thin silver ribbon which sparkled with diamonds threaded through the curly wisps which fell over her forehead.
With it, long silver ear-rings and silver stiletto heeled shoes which added enough inches to her height to bring her more than level with Delmara.
When Chrissie had finished with her, Sheila stood up and Delmara carefully twitched the gown into place.
Sheila stared at herself in the long glass and saw a stranger.
A tall, red haired woman, fragile and fine-boned, with white delicate skin and a finely cut nose, looked back at her with enormous green eyes fringed with dark lashes.
Sheila had become used to the fact that she had grown up ‘quite good-looking, really’, as Kathy had put it. Enough people had told her so by now, for the truth to have sunk in and been accepted.
But underneath, she still thought of herself often as the pale, skinny child with the ugly coloured hair who had longed for dark hair and blue eyes.
In the few moments while she looked at herself in the long glass, that image vanished for ever.
This was a woman, not a child, and a woman of great and individual beauty.
She was also, to Sheila’s amazement, poised, confident, and a little withdrawn.
How could an exterior be so misleading? Where was there any sign of the butterflies churning and fluttering in her stomach?
“Yes,” said Delmara softly, looking over her shoulder at her reflection. “Yes, indeed.”
He stood for a moment, his gaze fixed on her, then pulled himself together.
“Now, Sheila, we’ll go in another few minutes. One last word. Don’t look in mirrors or try to tidy your hair once you’re on display. Don’t smile or try to talk too much. Let other people make the effort. You don’t need to be witty or clever. You just need to let people look at you and fall down like ninepins. Right?”
More rules, thought Sheila. But she didn’t really mind these ones. “Ready to go?” Francis asked. Sheila nodded. Excitement welling up in her made it impossible to speak. “I’ve booked a taxi,” Francis Delmara said. “It makes things easier. Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Outside in the crisp, frosty air, the darkness was hung with glittering lights.
As the taxi carried them effortlessly through the centre of Dublin to the Charlton Gallery in Lower Abbey Street, Delmara talked.
“You don’t really need to know this, but Sebastian O’Rourke is probably the best painter to come out of Ireland this century. You may not like his work. It’s very strong, with hard lines and angles, and strong colours. Mostly people, but none of your traditional Irish character stuff.
“There will be a lot of well known people there tonight, the Minister of Arts and possibly the President and, of course, the cream of society – the rich and the thick. The Charlton has the ideal layout for making a grand entrance. I’ll go first and get people’s attention. Then I want you to play it absolutely professionally, as if you were on the catwalk. Don’t smile. I want that remote look.”
Sheila nodded.
“The doors lead to the top of a staircase and the gallery is at the foot of the stairs. Think of Walt Disney’s Cinderella and you’ll get the picture. So everyone looks at the stairs when someone comes down if it’s timed properly. You can leave that side of it to me. Just pretend you’re Cinderella at the ball, or Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. Okay?”
“Okay, Professor Higgins,” said Sheila.
She smiled. The butterflies seemed to have packed up and moved out, temporarily at least.
This was going to be good. Prickles of excitement ran up her spine.
The taxi pulled up before one of the old Georgian houses which make up so much of the centre of Dublin. Delmara came round to open the door for Sheila and she stepped out, carefully holding up the trailing hem of her dress. How dreadful if she caught the heel of a stiletto in the fragile stuff! But all went well.
Inside Sheila was dazzled for a moment by the lights and the ear assaulting noise. They were, as Delmara had described it, at the top of a flight of stairs leading directly into a long basement gallery where people were packed like sardines.
“Pause a moment, then follow me down when I call you,” Delmara instructed.
He went forward, stood a few steps down the stairs, and then called loudly, his voice pitched to cut through the noise and bring a momentary hush, as people turned to see what was happening.
“Sebastian O’Rourke, you old scoundrel! Come here, I want you to meet the most beautiful woman in Ireland!”
Sebastian, a tall, burly, sun-tanned figure with a balding head and very blue eyes, turned from the crowd of guests who had been buzzing round him and approached the foot of the stairs.
Francis Delmara ran lightly down the remaining steps, hand out- stretched.
On the lowest step, he paused dramatically, seized Sebastian O'Rourke's hands in both of his, and exclaimed, still in that very loud, attention grabbing voice,
“Here she is, Sebastian! Look your fill! The fabulous Sheila Doherty, Delmara’s latest and most stunning acquisition!”
Then he dragged O’Rourke to one side and turned to look up, giving Sheila a clear passage.
Sheila came slowly down the stairs.
As Delmara had prophesied, all eyes were on her.
Now that the moment had come, she felt no remnant of nervousness, only a fierce exhilaration.
Inside she felt laughter bubbling up, and sternly pushed it down. She would not spoil this moment by bursting out giggling.
Yet a part of her thought in wonder,
“Why are they all looking? It’s only me, Sheila, the gawky, ginger-haired kid. It’s all a gigantic game.”
As she reached the lower steps, she became aware of Sebastian O’Rourke’s blue eyes fixed on her with a piercing gaze which seemed to penetrate through to the back of her head and out the other side.
“Sheila, this is my friend Sebastian,” said Delmara easily.
O’Rourke took her hand and, with a graceful movement unexpected in so large a man, bent to kiss it.
Sheila smiled at him fleetingly, in spite of Delmara’s instructions, but the look in his eyes had already quelled in her all desire to laugh. She regarded him solemnly, her eyes large and wondering.
O’Rourke, too, seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then he recovered.
“Beautiful, indeed, Delmara,” he said. “It’s not often that word is used so accurately. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Doherty – or may I call you Sheila? Come and I’ll show you my paintings.”
Retaining his hold on Sheila’s hand, he began to lead her round the gallery, watched covertly or openly by almost everyone in the room.
Already Sheila had been aware of the flash of cameras several times and she hoped that she had not been caught from an unflattering angle.
But there was nothing to be done about it, so remembering Delmara’s repeated orders, she forgot about her appearance and refrained from so much as patting a curl back into place now that she was on public view.
Sebastian stopped at each of the paintings to explain it and praise it. Sheila had never heard anyone before blatantly praise his own work like this. Yet O’Rourke did not strike her as conceited, only fiercely honest and realistic.
“I’d like to paint you, Sheila,” he said abruptly. “Have you sat for any other painter?”
“No,” Sheila said. “Would you make me look like that – all angles?”
She indicated the picture in front of them.
“No,” said O’Rourke slowly. “No. With you it would be a more delicate approach. Flowing lines. I’d have to think about it. But there’s something there I need to capture.”
He stared intently at her.
“Someone wants to meet you, beautiful,” he said to her. “Come on, Sebastian, your turn’s over. Give her back, she’s mine.”
O’Rourke laughed.
“For a while, Delmara. But take warning. You have a serious rival now. Probably many,” he added, looking round at the eyes fastened on Sheila, openly or otherwise, from all sides. “Who do you want her to meet?”
“The President,” said Francis Delmara in an off-hand tone. “And after that, we must move on.”
Sheila met the President.
Then they met the Minister of Arts.
Then a well known playwright and poet.
Then a number of journalists.
The cameras flashed again.
Then at last they moved on.
The rest of the evening seemed to Sheila, high on adrenalin as well as wine, to consist of a series of flashes.
They went to a party where Delmara stage-managed another ‘entrance’ for Sheila.
The large crowded rooms, full of lights and people, were beginning to make her head whirl.
Catching sight of herself in a mirror at a point much later in the night, and at once looking away in obedience to Delmara’s constantly repeated rule never to be caught studying her own reflection in public, she found it hard to believe that the cool, poised, woman reflected in the glass was herself.
The hosts of the party were a young married couple, Tod and Sally Kilpatrick, friends of Delmara. They were the daughter and son-in-law of the well off owner of a chain of supermarkets, Hugh Frazer Knight.
Sheila reflected that neither of these well dressed, elegant people gave the slightest impression of being connected even remotely with tins of baked beans but was careful not to say so even to Francis.
The husband, a school friend of Delmara, although apparently recently married, showed a disturbing tendency to hang around Sheila, pressing her to drink.
She was relieved when Francis collected her smoothly and led her off to meet a string of other fashionable people, some with vaguely familiar faces and others whose claim to importance seemed to consist of their wealth rather than their talents.
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