I tried to ignore Ma as I laid Kathleen’s frock out on the table. I turned it over and back and then I took up the scissors.
“What in the name of God are you doing?” said Ma from behind.
“I’m altering it to fit me,” I muttered through a mouthful of pins.
“You can’t go destroying the frock that the girl’s after lending you.”
“She said it was all right,” I said.
I hesitated, scissors in hand. Ma had struck a nerve. What if Kathleen wanted the frock back? Did I have the right to cut it up? I lifted it and held it up against me. It was like an enormous billowing blue sail. I couldn’t wear it like this. I took a deep breath. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound, and I began to wield the scissors.
I worked late into the night. Ma eventually fell asleep in her chair. Kate came in from visiting a sick neighbor, nodded at me, and went straight up to bed. Kevin was away out to his favorite pub in Newry. For once the house was quiet. I cut the dress shorter and used the material saved to make a frill to go around the neck and around the hem and a sash for the waist. I cut the top of it into a V-neck—not too low, but low enough to expose my neck and upper chest. So much for modesty! I removed the glass buttons and sewed in darts to take in the bodice and give it some shape. I tore up an old skirt and used the lining. It was beginning to look like a real frock, almost like something you could buy in Foster’s in Newry. I was pleased and exhausted when I finally went to bed.
On Saturday morning I woke to rain lashing against the window. I groaned. The frock would be ruined before I even got to the competition. So would my hair and my shoes and all the rest. I decided I’d just have to wear any old thing over to the Temperance Hall and carry all I needed in a bag. The thought cheered me up and I hopped out of bed and went back to my work on the dress.
I was trying it on when Ma came shuffling out of the granny room.
“You look like a tart,” she said. “That neckline is a disgrace.”
I swung around. “It’s not,” I said. “Wait ’til you see what Patsy Mallon’s going to be wearing.”
Ma grunted. “That one’s no better than a tinker. She’s hardly one to copy.”
Suddenly tears welled in my eyes. I turned away so Ma would not see them.
“Och, Ma, would you not say something nice to me for once?” I said over my shoulder.
Ma grunted in reply. I wiped the tears away and began furiously ironing the blue frock. Da would have been proud of me, I thought. Da would have told me I was beautiful.
It was late afternoon when the frock was finished to my satisfaction. I folded it carefully and placed it in a large cloth bag. I had washed my hair that morning and wound the wet strands into small curls and secured them with clips. I looked out at the rain and decided to put on a scarf and then brush it out when I got to the hall. I put my rouge and powder and lipstick in another bag and looked around. I needed shoes and some jewelry.
“Ma,” I said, without thinking, “could I borrow that wee necklace? You know the silver and blue one Da gave you when I was born?”
Ma glared at me. I bit my lip. It was too late to take the words back—I didn’t know what had made me ask. I waited. After a minute or two, Ma stood up and went into the back room. She came back with a small black velvet box and roughly pushed it at me.
“Your da always said it was lucky, but a lot of good it’s done me.”
“Thanks a million, Ma,” I said and leaned forward to kiss her cheek, but she pulled away. “I’ll take good care of it.”
I went into the scullery and lifted a pot of cold tea and poured some into a bowl. I took a cloth and dipped it in the tea and rubbed it up and down my legs. Because of the rationing we could not buy nylons in the shops, but the tea gave our legs a bit of color. Then I took a black eyebrow pencil and carefully drew a line down the center of my calves to resemble a stocking seam. I prayed the rain wouldn’t make it all run.
“How do I look, Ma?” I said as I made for the front door.
“Like a gypsy,” said Ma.
I looxked down at my old raincoat and boots and touched the scarf on my head and laughed. “Aye, well wait ’til you see me later. I’ll be dazzling!”
Ma rolled her eyes. “You’re as mad in the head as your da was,” she said. Her face softened although she did not smile.
“Watch yourself,” was all she said, but to me it was as if she had wished me all the blessings a mother could wish for her daughter.
The rain soaked me as I rushed down the hill towards the Temperance Hall where the competition was to be held. Water from puddles splashed the back of my legs but I was in too much of a hurry to try to avoid them. I was already very late. When I reached the door of the hall my heart was pounding and I couldn’t catch my breath. I paused and bent over in the doorway until the sharp pain in my chest eased.
Crowds pushed past me—men and women from the mill and people I’d never seen before. Tweed jackets smelled like damp sheep and pockets bulged with flasks and paper bags. There was no drink served in the Temperance Hall and so the men smuggled in whiskey and porter. I supposed plenty of the women had wine and spirits hidden in their bags and baskets too for they were no strangers to smuggling since the war rationing had begun.
I straightened up and pushed my way into the main hall. Thank God nobody seemed to recognize me in the getup I wore. I rushed up the side of the hall towards a big stage. A banner reached across it that read “Linen Queen, 1941” in big blue letters on a white background. Chairs and tables had been set up for the judges and behind them, at the back of the stage, Paddy Moloney’s band was tuning up. I swallowed hard and pulled open a door behind the stage that led to a side room. And then I stopped dead in my tracks. The room was bursting with girls of every size and shape. The noise was deafening as they shouted and screeched and cursed and cackled. Clothes few everywhere: corsets and petticoats and frocks. And in the thick of it all towered Mrs. McAteer like the circus master in the middle of the ring. She scowled when she saw me.
“You’re late!”
Sure I know that well enough, I thought, but I said nothing. I pushed my way to a corner of the room and dropped my bag on the floor. I bent to take out my frock and was knocked on my knees by an ignorant big girl.
“Will you watch yourself,” she said. “I nearly fell over you, you eejit.”
“You stepped on my frock,” I said.
I pulled off my wet garments and carefully stepped into the frock. The girl who had knocked into me was still raging. She was not from Queensbrook.
“Fecking country girls are as ignorant as pigs,” she said to a group of girls beside her, “worried about their frocks. They don’t even know the proper word is dress!”
“Who are you calling pigs?”
It was Patsy. I looked over. She stood facing the girl, her hands on her hips. She wore only a brassiere and a tight corset that was riding up her behind. She looked so comical I almost laughed. But I stopped short. I realized she was not defending me. When she swung around the shock on her face was obvious.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind and taken pity on poor Kathleen.” Then she threw her hand to her mouth. “In the name of God what have you done to Kathleen’s frock?”
“I altered it,” I said.
“You cut it to ribbons, you wee bitch.”
Mrs. McAteer walked over when she heard Patsy shouting. She looked me up and down. I was just tying the sash around my waist.
“Didn’t you read the rules, Miss McGee? That frock is much too vulgar. You will pin that neck closed immediately.”
I glared at her. “There’s plenty here with necklines lower than this,” I said, looking around the room. “Why don’t you tell them to pin it up?”
Her face turned crimson. “Those girls are from other mills and I am not responsible for them. You will do what you are told.”
She turned on her heel and marched away. “Ou
l’ bitch,” I muttered under my breath and searched for a safety pin.
I squeezed in front of a mirror beside a tall, thin girl wearing a shiny emerald green frock. She was pretty with long black hair, much like my own, and pale skin and deep emerald eyes, the color of the frock. Och, but the frock! It was so old-fashioned it must have belonged to her ma. Even my own ma would not have been caught dead in it. She smiled at me.
“It’s mad in here isn’t it?” Her accent had a sharp Belfast edge.
“Aye. Where are you from?”
“Ballymena. Me ma made me wear this. She won the prize herself twenty years ago in this very dress. She thought it would bring me luck.”
I reached up and secured Ma’s blue and silver necklace around my throat.
“Your dress is lovely,” she whispered. “It must have cost a fortune of money.”
I shrugged. “Not really.” I was not about to confess I’d made it myself from a friend’s hand-me-down.
I concentrated on putting on my makeup. I drew a thin black line along my eyebrows, rubbed on rouge, and painted my lips with bright red lipstick I’d lifted from Ma’s bedside table. I took out the clips and let my hair fall down. Thank God it had dried. Then I realized I’d forgotten my brush. I swore under my breath. I called out to Patsy.
“Can I get a lend of your brush?”
“No,” said Patsy, “I might need it.”
“You can borrow mine,” said the emerald green girl.
I took it from her. I supposed all the ones from the cities weren’t so bad after all—better even than your own friends. I brushed my dark hair into waves and secured it at my right temple with a small silver clip.
“Are you nervous?” the girl asked.
“Not at all,” I lied.
Mrs. McAteer clapped her hands. “Girls, finish up now. We will be marching into the hall in five minutes. Finish what you’re doing and clean up this mess!” She looked around the room in disgust. Discarded clothes littered the floor, while hairbrushes, powder puffs, makeup, pins and sewing needles and thread were scattered on the tables. She clapped her hands again. “Come along now,” she trilled, “line up now, single file please. Mr. Carlson is about to speak. Silence, please.”
“Welcome to the twenty-fifth Linen Queen competition,” Mr. Carlson began from the stage. We heard a cheer go up from the crowd.
“We are honored to host the event for the very first time here in Queensbrook. It is especially gratifying that we can still hold such a happy event while England is at war.” Muffed groans greeted his words. “Hopefully, Northern Ireland will be spared,” he continued, “but Queensbrook Mill and its workers stand ready if called upon to do whatever is necessary to aid our mother country in her time of need…”
He blathered on for a while as we all grew impatient. I tried not to notice my nerves. In my haste to get to the hall and get ready I hadn’t had time to think about the competition itself, let alone about how badly I wanted to win the prize. I tried to distract myself by looking around at the other girls. Mary McAteer had not appeared yet. Her ma must be hiding her in a private room somewhere, I thought. Too good to mix with the rest of us. Our other Queensbrook girls—Eileen, Abby, and Celia—all looked well enough but would not be much competition. I had to admit some of the out-of-town girls were beautiful though, and my confidence began to plunge. I stole a look at Patsy. She wore a tight scarlet dress with a neckline so low her white breasts were almost jumping out of it. Her blond hair was brushed back in a bob, and she wore big glass earrings and a necklace to match. She looked cheap, I thought, but maybe the judges would love her. Men liked that kind of boldness. I reached for the pin I had put at the neck of my own dress and in one movement pulled it out.
Finally, Mr. Carlson introduced the judges. The band struck up with “The Star of the County Down” in honor of the previous year’s winner who was from Bangor, and all twenty-four of us fled out to the cheers and clapping of the audience.
Mary McAteer appeared from nowhere to lead the procession onto the stage while I was the last one out. The bright lights almost blinded me. I waved to the crowd the way I imagined a royal princess might do. Camera bulbs flashed and the audience became a blur. I could hear the spinners though, singing away and catcalling to some of the girls as they walked across the stage.
“Hello, Eileen. Does your mother know you’re out?”
“Good girl yourself, Patsy Mallon!”
No one called out to me.
We paraded past the judge’s table and gave a slight curtsy as our names were called. My legs shook under me but I kept a smile on my face and looked the judges straight in the eyes. We marched off the stage again and waited in the wings while the judges huddled with one another. The rules called for five girls to be selected and the winner and runner-up would be picked from among them. They were each to be asked a question, and supposedly the results would be based on their answers.
Mary McAteer was called first. She let out a squeal when she heard her name and threw her hands to her mouth as if she couldn’t believe it. Hypocrite, I thought. Of course Carlson’s niece was going to be recognized; we all knew that. But she’d hardly win. True, Mary looked better than I’d ever seen her. The glittery silver dress she wore was gorgeous, and she’d had her hair done in an expensive shop. But she was still plump and shapeless, and no amount of money could change her into a silk purse. She pushed past me, her eyelids fluttering. But when they asked her to describe a visit to the biggest city in Northern Ireland she stammered like an eejit and began talking about London.
The rest of us squealed with laughter, and Mrs. McAteer threatened to throw us out. Three more girls were called, all of them from other mills. They were the good-looking ones I had noticed before. I felt a grip on my arm. The girl in the emerald green dress stood beside me.
“Pray for luck,” she whispered. “Me ma will kill me if I don’t win.”
And mine will kill me if I do, I thought to myself.
Whatever confidence I had was beginning to slip. There was only one place left. Was it possible I would not even get called? Would I have to go home with one hand as long as the other? Would this one chance to make something of myself pass me by? I was sinking into such despair that I didn’t even hear my name called until Mrs. McAteer roughly shoved me out onto the stage. Cheers roared up from the men in the crowd, although there was only polite applause from the women.
One of the judges beamed at me and said, “Miss Sheila McGee, is it?” I nodded. “Tell me, Miss McGee, and what would you do with the two hundred pounds prize money should you win this competition?”
Inwardly I did a little jig. I had rehearsed my answer to such a question for years before I ever dreamed I could be standing here. It was the biggest lie of my life. I bowed my head and smiled my most angelic smile. “Well, sir,” I said, “first of all I did not enter the competition for the money, but for the privilege of representing my mill, my town, and Northern Ireland as the Linen Queen. As for the money, I shall give it to my mother who has worked her hands to the bone all these years to care for me.”
There was a silence in the hall. The judge who had asked the question stared at me, then broke out into a smile that was more of a leer.
“Thank you, Miss McGee,” he said. “That was a splendid answer.”
It took them less than two minutes to declare me the winner. Cameras flashed, and the band played “When You Wish upon a Star” as Mr. Carlson placed the linen sash on me that proclaimed “Linen Queen, 1941” and awkwardly set the silver tiara on my head. “Well done, Miss McGee,” he whispered, obviously more pleased for himself than for me. Last year’s winner shoved a bouquet of flowers into my hands and flounced off the stage. I took a moment to arrange the tiara more securely on my hair and fix a broad smile on my face and I walked back and forth across the stage and the band struck up “God Save the King.” The night was mine. I had won.
By the time I returned to the dressing room most of the girls had go
ne. Only Mrs. McAteer and Mary remained. Mary had been picked as the runner-up. None of us were that surprised, given who she was. At least the judges and Carlson hadn’t been shameless enough to declare her the winner. Mary and her ma stopped talking when I walked in. I picked up my things in silence, put my coat on over my dress, and walked out. The crowd was emptying out of the hall as I stepped out into the rain. Mill lads came up to hug me and for once I was glad of their attention. Some of the spinners muttered congratulations but I could tell the word had spread about me and Kathleen and I was probably the last girl they wanted to see win. Kathleen herself came up to me.
“Congratulations, Sheila,” she said. “And the frock was lovely on you.”
Guilt seized me. “I’m sorry, Kathleen, but I had to cut it down; it was—”
Kathleen put up her hand. “It’s all right, Sheila. It looked so lovely on you I want you to keep it.”
“Och, Kathleen—” I began, but just then Patsy came up behind us.
“C’mon, Kathleen,” she said, ignoring me. “Some of the lads are going to Newry for a drink—they’ve offered us a lift.”
“Oh, you go on, Patsy,” said Kathleen. “I have to be getting home.” She turned to me. “Aren’t you going to celebrate, Sheila?”
“No,” I said. I realized then that I had no one I cared about to celebrate with. Patsy had turned against me, Ma was at home nursing her misery, and Gavin wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I had vaguely hoped he would come, even though he didn’t approve of the competition.
As I walked slowly home in the wet darkness I tried desperately to warm the cold thing that coiled inside me. I clutched the envelope that held the two hundred pounds. I had wanted this prize more than anything else in the world, but I had not realized the price I would have to pay for it. I was special now—set apart from family, friends, and neighbors by status and envy. I realized that tonight I had not just won a title, a tiara, and money. The real prize was my discovery of the raw power of beauty.
The Linen Queen Page 4