Belfast Girls

by Gerry McCullough

  “Subject closed,” she said lightly. “Now I’m going to talk about myself, so just shut up and drink your coffee and listen.”

  She began to tell Phil about the things that had been happening to her, haltingly at first and then with increasing confidence as she went on. She had shared so many things with Phil when they were children. It seemed very natural to share these things, too.

  When she had finished, Phil, who had been letting her coffee grow cold while she continued to stir it absently, looked up.

  “Oh, Mary,” she said, “You seem so happy. So peaceful. I wish I could be like that.”

  “Well,” said Mary, “I don’t have a monopoly on it, Phil. It’s there for anyone who wants it.”

  “I don’t know,” Phil said. “I don’t know.”

  Mary, whose natural instinct would have been to push on with her own opinions, and insist that Phil should adopt them as her own, suddenly found an unaccustomed wisdom. For a moment she said nothing. Then she said,

  “Well, like I said, any time you want to talk, you know where to find me. But tell me, have you heard anything from Sheila Doherty lately? I haven’t seen her for ages. I hear she’s hitting the high spots in Dublin, these days?”

  Phil suddenly looked animated again. “Yeah, isn’t it great? Did you see the photos in Now magazine? If anyone deserves it, Sheila does. She’s a great girl.”

  “Yes,” Mary agreed. “And how about Gerry, and your family, and so on? Tell me all the news.”

  They continued to chat for another half hour, reminiscing about school, the nuns and the pupils, the times when they had been in trouble together, events which had been painful at the time but which now, in the haze of nostalgia, seemed both funny and full of the warmth of past security.

  When at last Phil noticed the time and realised that she would have to rush to avoid being late for Davy, she was surprised to find that she was feeling more cheerful than she had done for a long time.

  “Let’s keep in touch, Mary,” she said impulsively as they separated outside the Union. “I think one of the main things wrong with me is not having a good mate like you to talk to when I feel down.”

  “You’ve got a point, there,” Mary said. “I’m glad we met. I’ll be in touch.”

  She smiled as she waved a casual goodbye. But when Phil was out of sight, her smile disappeared. This was not the cheerful Phil she had once known. Mary wished with all her heart that she could free Phil from the sadness which seemed now to have her in its grip.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sheila went for a sitting with Sebastian O’Rourke one afternoon about a week after Sally and Tod’s lunch party.

  He was waiting impatiently for her and flung open the door as soon as she approached, pouncing on her and dragging her in, rather, Sheila thought, like some wild animal seizing his prey and dragging it into his den.

  “Francis will be here in a moment,” Sheila said coolly. “He wanted to discuss with you what you want me to wear. He’s thinking in terms of some special creation for the occasion.”

  O’Rourke growled. “Something light and floating. That’s all it needs to be.”

  His studio was on the top floor of an old house out towards Rathmines and the rather dilapidated exterior gave the visitor no clue as to what to expect inside.

  In fact, Sheila discovered, O’Rourke had completely rehabbed the place and she found herself impressed.

  The keynotes were light, space and air. There was no clutter.

  At the top of the stairs, four doors opened off the small landing, giving a glimpse of bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and studio.

  The studio itself was a large room, two or three rooms thrown into one, Sheila guessed. There were windows on three sides as well as roof lighting.

  Brushes, paints and other tools of the artist’s trade were arrayed with meticulous neatness in a made to order cabinet on the fourth side, by the door.

  Canvasses were stacked carefully on a set of shelves in one corner and the painter’s easel was set nearly in the middle of the room.

  To one end was a red velvet chaise longue, obviously for a sitter.

  The only other seating arrangements were two simple wooden chairs with straight backs against one wall and a few enormous cushions in bright colours flung down on the polished wooden floor.

  Apart from the radiators, which diffused a gentle, regulated heat, that was all.

  “Go over and sit on the couch,” ordered Sebastian O’Rourke, almost before Sheila had come through the studio door. “I want to get a general impression first – remind myself of what it was about you that I wanted to paint.”

  Sheila went over to the red couch and sat, and O’Rourke immediately roared out, “No! Get away from that red!”

  He rushed to the cabinet, flung open one of the lower doors, and pulled out a couple of spreads, one black, one a pale cream.

  These he arranged in turn over the couch, placing Sheila against each, standing back and frowning.

  By the time he had decided on the black cover, a ring below signalled the arrival of Francis Delmara.

  O’Rourke plunged down the stairs to greet him, let him in, and at once began to argue fiercely about the need for his presence.

  “Interference!” he said loudly. “That's what it is. Why should you have any say in what I decide to paint?”

  “Because,” said Francis Delmara calmly, “the only reason I am permitting Sheila to sit for you is that it will be more publicity for my designs. So I shall – not decide – but discuss with you what she will wear. Sheila, my dear O’Rourke, is under contract to me and has signed an agreement not to undertake any outside work without my consent.”

  “Work? This isn’t work. It’s art!” burst out O’Rourke. “As for what she should wear, suppose I decide that I want her to wear nothing at all? Where would Delmara Fashions come into the picture then?”

  “My dear Sebastian,” Delmara was beginning in the languid tones in such complete contrast to O’Rourke’s roar, “any paid activity is work, although it may be art at the same time –”

  Sheila stood up and moved forward.

  Her voice when she spoke was soft but it managed to cut off Sebastian O’Rourke’s renewed bellowing almost before it had begun.

  “Don’t I have any say in this? Delmara is quite right, Mr O’Rourke. I am under contract to him and I’m always grateful for any advice he gives me about public appearances. If Francis was unhappy about it, I wouldn’t have agreed to sit for you, contract or not. As for wearing nothing – think again, my friend.”

  O’Rourke suddenly smiled his charming smile. “Please don’t call me Mr O’Rourke, Miss Doherty. I thought we were on better terms than that. Okay, let’s all discuss it. It’s my picture, but let’s have a general discussion about what I’m going to paint! No, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that. Well, Francis – what have you got to suggest?”

  “That's more like it,” Francis Delmara approved. “Now, Seb, this is what I had in mind.”

  He began to pull cuttings of material from the small folder he had brought with him and the two men became absorbed in discussion of shades and textures.

  Sheila wandered over to the window and gazed out.

  She saw a busy city road leading in to the heart of Dublin, chock-a-block with traffic and pedestrians. On the opposite side, the road was lined with the tall, three or four storey houses so typical of Dublin, with their small city gardens and, in many cases, a railed flight of steps leading down from pavement level to basement.

  A slim, dark-haired young man, lean but quite tall, appeared abruptly in one of the doorways opposite.

  He turned to fling a casual goodbye over his shoulder.

  Then he hurried down the low flight of steps towards the street.

  Sheila, gazing at him absent-mindedly, felt her heart suddenly stop.

  John.

  A moment later, she had realised her mistake. The young man was a total stranger, with only a superficial re
semblance to John Branagh.

  Sheila bit her lip.

  She had not realised that the thought of John was so near the surface of her mind.

  All that was over!

  Sheila felt fiercely angry with herself.

  “Well, what’s the decision?” she asked, turning back to the two men in the room behind her.

  “This is the one,” Delmara said, holding up a swathe of almost diaphanous chiffon in the palest shade of white. “I shall design a very simple robe – almost Pre-Raphaelite – as light and clinging as air – and O’Rourke will paint you lying on the couch, which will be draped in black velvet, with your hair trailing to the floor. It’s decided.”

  “It will be a stylised subject,” O’Rourke broke in. “An irony, you understand. A parody. But beautiful – beautiful. Half tribute, half mockery of a bygone romanticism which we can no longer capture. And yet, in your beauty we’ll see it apparently captured again, Sheila – that’s your appeal.”

  Sheila smiled. O’Rourke’s enthusiasm demanded a response of sympathy and understanding.

  It was pleasant, too, to be identified as a symbol of romantic yearnings, a symbol which in itself, being out of reach, underlined the impossibility of its attainment and mocked what it presented.

  She felt proud that she would contribute to a work which she knew instinctively would be important in its impact on its century and perhaps on future generations also.

  Something in her suddenly shivered and she felt her face harden.

  O’Rourke’s insight frightened her.

  Romantic yearnings – what did they mean? What did they lead to?

  She had believed that she had put all such desires behind her and accepted that love was only a game.

  But had she?

  Why, then, had she imagined that she had seen John Branagh?

  Did he still mean something in her life?

  And if not, what was left?

  The smile faded from Sheila’s lips and again she shivered.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Sheila had not forgotten Mrs Boyd Cassidy, and she, in turn, had not forgotten Sheila.

  Their paths had crossed at a number of social events, but Delmara Fashions had been moving around, over to London and to Paris, and it was not until the autumn, when they returned briefly to Dublin, and Delmara had begun to talk more definitely about his proposed show in New York, that the old lady made a further opportunity to talk to Sheila.

  The occasion was Roisin Boyd Cassidy’s ninety-fifth birthday party and she had pulled out all the stops.

  The rich and famous from three continents gathered to do her honour.

  Roisin Boyd Cassidy’s contribution to the founding of the present day Republic of Ireland had won admiration for her from one set of people, while her successful career as a couturière of world-wide renown had spread that admiration through a very different set.

  The big city centre house was crammed with people and ablaze with lights when the taxi carrying Sheila and Francis pulled up before it.

  Sheila had grown used by now to the glittering night-life arranged for her by Delmara, but she still felt the familiar thrill of excitement as she stepped out of the taxi.

  In the months that had passed, first in Dublin and then moving around, winter had turned to spring, and now summer had gone in its turn.

  The light, clear nights when evening parties began in daylight were already beginning to pass and darkness was creeping on.

  Inside the house, flowers were everywhere and their perfume mingled with the more exotic fragrances of the guests.

  Sheila paused in the doorway almost overwhelmed by the noise which hit her like a blow from the crowded rooms.

  She was wearing dark blue silk. For a moment, as she dressed, her mind had gone back to the dark blue dress she had worn at Mary Branagh’s sixteenth birthday party and the excitement she had felt then.

  It seemed a million years away.

  That had been the first really grown-up party she had ever been to, and it had been the first time she had been told that she was pretty – by Gerry Maguire.

  It had also, she recalled with no difficulty at all, been the first time she had met Mary’s brother, John.

  Tonight’s dark blue dress was a very different affair from the simple schoolgirl style of the one she had worn then.

  From its plunging neckline to the thigh high slit on the left side, it was not the dress for a school girl.

  Sheila, fastening it round her slim body, shook off her mood with an effort and went down to meet Francis.

  Now, as she stood in the doorway, she saw that people had turned to look at her in the way that had become familiar.

  For a moment there was a brief pause in the conversation.

  Alerted by the sudden silence, Mrs Boyd Cassidy, surrounded by an admiring group, looked up and saw her.

  She came forward at once.

  “Sheila, my dear. How glad I am to see you.”

  She looked immensely elegant and impossibly old in a gown of deep green satin, personally designed in her own individual style for this special night.

  “My dear, there are some people I want you to meet tonight who have been looking forward very much to knowing you. But let’s leave that until later. Francis, take this little lady to the buffet and see that she gets something delicious to eat and drink.”

  Sheila had an internal grin at being called a ‘little lady’ by the petite couturière, but accepted it as it was meant, as a term of affection.

  She and Francis Delmara went off obediently to the buffet where Sheila’s attention was immediately claimed by Terry O’Hanlon, the columnist she had first met at Tod and Sally Kilpatrick’s lunch party.

  Terry wanted to talk to Sheila not only because she was beautiful but also because his journalist’s nose told him that here was material for an interesting section for his column.

  Rumour had it that there was some mystery about her background.

  What a scope for the O’Hanlon column to be able to announce the solution to the mystery conclusively, once and for all, on the authority of the lady’s own personal revelation.

  So he put himself out to be at his most charming and witty, and Sheila laughed and enjoyed his company, and was very careful to tell him nothing whatsoever that he did not know already.

  “Tell me,” said Sheila presently.

  She was curious, and saw no reason why she should not use O’Hanlon’s expertise to fill out her own understanding of the present situation.

  “That man over by the far wall, talking to Mrs Boyd Cassidy – you see him?”

  O’Hanlon looked across the room at the tall grey haired man with the intelligent face who was leaning over with a smile to listen to his hostess.

  “Yes,” he said, “You mean Seamus O’Donnell?”

  “Is that his name? I’d forgotten. But what I wanted to ask you was this. Someone pointed him out to me as a hero of the IRA. If he was known as an IRA activist, why was he never arrested? Up North, he wouldn’t be arrested now, since the ceasefire, okay, but before that, they’d have been onto him like hounds on a fox.”

  “You don’t understand,” said O’Hanlon, laughing.

  “No, I don’t,” Sheila said frankly. “So explain to me, please.”

  “O’Donnell wasn’t necessarily an activist in the present troubles,” O’Hanlon began. “He fought, back in the Twenties, in the Irish Civil War, when the nation was divided between the supporters of Michael Collins, who signed the treaty with England and accepted the division of this island into north and south, and De Valera and his followers on the other side, who called Collins a traitor and fought to the bitter end to resist the agreement.

  “Peace was made eventually, but it was one of the worst and most bloody wars in Irish history. It was in that conflict that O’Donnell took part. You can see he’s not a young man. He must be in his late eighties, I suppose.”

  “So you’re saying he was a hero of an IRA which h
ad really nothing to do with the terrorists of these recent troubles?” Sheila asked.

  “Okay,” O'Hanlon conceded, “that’s about right. But even if he had been fully involved, he could safely go up North for his holidays now since the ceasefire, as you say. The paramilitaries have bowed out. The authorities are more concerned with the gangster element that’s sprung up to fill the vacuum.

  “Some of them are ex-paramilitaries, okay. And they’re into drug dealing in a big way and trafficking in illegal immigrants, prostitution, you name it. It’s always been bad in Dublin, but now Belfast’s getting caught up in the rackets too. Now, if you'd asked me about some of the other people here tonight ..." He broke off and grinned tantalisingly at Sheila.

  “Do you mean ...?”

  “Oh, yes, any number of drug dealers here. I don’t say that everyone in the room knows that. In fact, I suppose very few people do. I happen to be the exception because I have a certain amount of inside knowledge. It’s my job to know things. But some of the younger men here – Roisin keeps in touch, you see. She knew them all in the old days, the ones that were paramilitaries, was involved herself, and from what I hear, she still knows most of what’s going on. They call her the Celtic Tigress. The economy being the Celtic Tiger, see?”

  Sheila was uncertain if she should believe him. Journalists always exaggerated. They wanted everything to be a good story.

  Surely that pleasant, rather pathetic, old woman couldn’t be involved in drug dealing or any other criminal stuff, either here or up north?

  But she knew that at least part of O’Hanlon’s information was true. Mrs Boyd Cassidy herself had talked of her activities in the days when the Republic was first set up. She knew people like O’Donnell. Why should she not know their successors? And the loose cannons who had turned criminal?

  Why even should she not know something of their plans?

  For a moment Sheila thought, “No, she’s only an old lady. No-one would be silly enough to let her know about that sort of thing.”

  She looked over.

  Just at that moment, Roisin Boyd Cassidy looked up and Sheila caught her eye.