The Linen Queen

by Patricia Falvey

  “Me ma and Kate took in an evacuee,” I began, “a right wee git from Belfast.”

  “And?”

  “And I got so mad I packed my bags and ran out of the house. I had my ticket for the train and everything.”

  It sounded stupid as I said it.

  “You ran because of an evacuee? Because of a child?”

  “I know I sound like an eejit,” I admitted, “but I couldn’t help myself.”

  Gavin said nothing. He took a long pull on his cigarette, stretched out his legs, and stared out into the distance. Annoyance began to fill me. Why should I have to explain this to him? I ignored the voice that told me I needed to explain it to myself.

  “Anyway, I found out now you have to have special permission to leave the country, and so I had to give up and come home. Bloody war. Bloody nuisance.”

  Gavin shook his head. “You don’t give up, do you, Sheila? Haven’t I told you a hundred times you’re better off here.”

  “You could save your breath, Gavin. I’m still going one of these days. Maybe I’ll have to wait for the war to be over—but I’ll get away eventually.”

  Gavin turned and looked at me. He was smiling.

  “You’re a stubborn wee lass, aren’t you?”

  “No more stubborn than you,” I said.

  An odd feeling came over me. There was something in Gavin’s voice and the way he looked at me that was unsettling, but pleasant. I was tempted to move closer to him, but I stopped myself. Instead, he moved closer to me, and put his arm around my shoulder. I could smell the faint scent of linseed oil. Slowly he reached over with his other arm and turned me towards him.

  “I’m glad you didn’t go, Sheila,” he said. “I’d miss you something desperate if you left.”

  I wanted to make a smart remark, but I was at a loss for words. Something new and strange was happening. Gavin gazed at me in a way he had never done before. It was as if some invisible curtain that had always been between us had been ripped back and we were seeing each other for the first time. I held my breath. He leaned forward and put his lips on mine, softly at first, gently tasting them, and then more insistently. His breath came in ragged bursts and I felt his heart thudding against my chest. As he pressed closer into me, I reached up and wound my arms around his neck and returned his kiss. All restraint left me as I surrendered myself along with Gavin to this wild thing that gripped us. We stayed locked together until we went limp with exhaustion.

  I pulled away first and sucked in air as if I’d been drowning. It took me a while to get my breath. I tried to calm the trembling that had taken hold of me. Slowly Gavin let his arms drop and he reached in his pocket for his cigarettes. I waited for him to say he was sorry, that he didn’t know what had come over him, that it wouldn’t happen again. But he said nothing. He simply lit two cigarettes and handed one to me. But he never took his eyes off me.

  Thought and reason roared back into my brain. I jumped up.

  “I have to be going,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why,” I said. I was too flustered to explain anything. “I just have to.”

  He stood up then and took my arm and helped me down off the boat. As I stepped down he leaned over and whispered in my ear.

  “I’m not sorry I did that, Sheila.”

  I didn’t answer him. Without looking back I rushed across the dock and picked up my bicycle and threw my leg over it. I pedaled away, my back upright and stiff as if in defense against his stare that I knew followed me. I didn’t let a thought enter my mind until I was well outside of Newry and on my way up to Queensbrook. Then I opened up my head and the thoughts swamped me, threatening to leave me dizzy. How could this have happened? It was not supposed to be this way between Gavin and me. This was not part of my plan.

  Later that night as I lay awake listening to Grainne’s ragged breathing, I admitted to myself that kissing Gavin had been like nothing I’d experienced before. For all the lads I’d kissed, I’d never had this feeling of… I couldn’t even put my finger on it. All I knew was it had been intoxicating and frightening. I tried to put the memory out of my mind. I had no space for it. I was never going to marry Gavin. Why would I trap myself like that—sitting home waiting for him for weeks while he was away on a voyage? Look at what it had done to Ma. I would only be swapping one prison for another. I made up my mind. I would steer clear of Gavin O’Rourke from now on. I would keep to my plan of escape. I would let nothing stand in the way.

  Chapter 7

  By the spring of 1942 I was beginning to learn that even unpleasant things can become comfortable. They can curl around you if you aren’t watching and lull you into a state that paralyzes hope. In my case, the day I had let the Belfast train go without me I had voluntarily chosen to return to this limbo, knowing its dangers. And now I was becoming as comfortable with my life here as everyone else. I had come to believe that nothing much would change until the war was over. But I was wrong.

  It was just after Easter, and the anniversary of the day Belfast was first bombed. I sat with Patsy and Kathleen and some of the other girls along the mill wall eating our midday sandwiches and enjoying the mild weather. A few mill lads lounged on the grass near us, nudging one another and making stupid jokes at our expense. They would do anything for attention. I was in the middle of a story about something that had happened over the weekend when we heard screams. We all turned and stared down the road past the tram depot. Mary McAteer and her friend Rose Boyle were flying up the road, bosoms and hips jiggling to beat the band. Rose was as stout as Mary and they palled around together.

  “What’s got into them two eejits?” said Patsy.

  “Maybe a bull got out of the field and is chasing them.” Kathleen laughed.

  “Well, we know it’s not fellas after them,” Patsy said, grinning.

  A distant rumbling sounded behind the girls. We stood up and shaded our eyes. “Maybe it’s the Jerries,” I said.

  Kathleen’s jaw dropped. “Och, don’t be saying that, Sheila,” she cried.

  We waited. Then they came into sight. A convoy of lorries led by two uniformed men on motorcycles. We couldn’t believe our eyes.

  “Och, sweet Jesus,” cried Patsy. “It’s the Yanks.”

  We had heard rumors for weeks that American soldiers would soon be coming to the North and would be billeted here. Something had been said about Northern Ireland being a good place to assemble troops who would be flying sorties to Europe. And, since the Free State was neutral, people said, England was afraid the Jerries might sneak over the border from the South and bomb England from here. There were already soldiers stationed nearby, English and Welsh, but we didn’t know whether to believe that the Yanks would actually come as well. Now, as we craned our necks we saw squadrons of men in khaki uniforms sitting in the open lorries. There was no mistaking them. They were indeed the Yanks. We dropped our sandwiches, scattering crumbs everywhere, and ran out into the middle of the road. I tore off my apron and threw it behind me on the ground and unwound my turban and shook out my hair. We jumped up and down waving and yelling like schoolgirls. I felt a rush of energy of a kind I had not felt in years. The sun was warm on my face and bare arms. I felt my hair fluttering around my shoulders and my heart began to race. As the lorries drew closer and the soldiers saw us they stood up and hung over the sides waving, shouting, and whistling at us. The convoy slowed down to a crawl. We squealed and waved back. The American soldiers were like no men we had ever seen. They were tall and suntanned and handsome. Their uniforms were immaculately clean and well pressed. Their hair was cut short under their jaunty caps and their teeth were shining white. It was as if they had stepped down off the screen right out of an American film and to a group of mill girls who had never seen anybody like them, they were gods.

  Mary McAteer and Rose Boyle arrived beside us, sweating and out of breath. “Aren’t they gorgeous?” crowed Mary, waving her fat arm in front of my face.

  The first two l
orries passed on down the road and we turned around to wave after them. Then we heard the rumble of another lorry and we turned back to look. There were more of them coming. But then we grew silent and our mouths fell open. The lorry was filled with soldiers also, but these boys were different.

  “Och will you look at the wee darkie lads,” screamed Patsy. “Aren’t they beautiful? Did you ever see the likes of them?”

  Indeed, none of us had ever seen the likes of them. They were as black as the pictures of the African babies the missionary priests always passed around.

  “Are they from Africa?” asked Kathleen.

  “Sure they’re in American uniforms,” I said. “They must be Yanks.”

  When we recovered from the shock, we began to wave and shout as madly as we had done before. The black soldiers were not as noisy as the white ones who had gone ahead. They smiled and nudged one another, and one or two waved at us. But they seemed shy. We waved and shouted anyway until they were out of sight.

  After they had all gone, we stood in silence for a long while staring down the empty road. I think we might all have been wondering if it had been a dream. The screech of the mill whistle brought us back to reality. We slowly picked up the remains of our sandwiches and walked back up to the spinning factory. I wrapped my scarf back into a turban around my head, shoving my hair up under it, and I picked up the heavy black apron. I looked over at the mill lads. They were not grinning anymore. They hung their heads as they plodded back towards the mill. One of them picked up a stone and threw it in the river.

  “Well, that’s us done for now,” he said. “They’ll have eyes for nobody but the bloody Yanks.”

  Word of the arrival of the Yanks spread like wildfire. There was little work done at the mill the rest of that afternoon. The machine operators left the fax threads spinning in the air as they stopped to gossip. Patsy was in her element telling and retelling the story of the convoy of lorries that had passed up the mill road. Of course she exaggerated everything—how well the soldiers looked, what they said, how they greeted us. The girls who had not been there listened with mouths wide open. This was the biggest thing that had happened in Queensbrook in as long as any of us could remember.

  As the closing whistle blared and we all rushed down the stairs from the spinning room and out into the cool, fresh air, our giddiness only grew. Where would the Yanks be staying? Would they be walking around town of an evening? Would they go to the pubs and the dances in Newry and Warrenpoint? Would they be allowed to go out with the local girls? The craic was ninety as we all talked and laughed at once. Ma came running out of the weaving shed and caught up with me.

  “Sheila, love,” she crowed, “wait for me. Did you hear the news? The Yanks have come and I hear they’re lovely!”

  I sighed. I should have known this would be right up Ma’s alley. She might decide to go out on the hunt now along with girls half her age. It was bloody embarrassing, so it was. I would be scandalized.

  “Och, they’ll have money to spend,” she went on, “and I hear they can get anything you want—nylons, cigarettes, even chocolate.” She giggled. “As long as you’re nice to them of course.”

  I rolled my eyes and made up my mind to avoid Ma as much as I could. If she wanted to go out and disgrace herself with her own cronies, let her, but I wouldn’t be anywhere near her. For God’s sake, would she ever realize that she was an oul’ woman who should be well past such carry-on? It was the turn of the young ones like myself to have a bit of fun. I shrugged. Well, it didn’t matter anyway—sure there’d be very few of the Yanks would even give her the time of day.

  It was only a few days later, on a Friday, that I was called into Mr. Carlson’s office. I swore under my breath, but I was shaking with fear all the same. I’d never spoken to the mill owner since the night he put the Linen Queen crown on my head over a year before. What was wrong? There had been no competition held in 1942 on account of the war, and so I had remained Linen Queen. Was he going to take away my title? Had he heard a bad report about me? What would I do if he was going to sack me? I tried to control my shaking as I knocked on the door of his office. A woman’s voice called for me to come in—his secretary, Miss Johnson, an elderly woman who never smiled. Mary McAteer’s sly eyes followed me as I passed her desk.

  “Mr. Carlson will be right with you, Miss McGee,” Miss Johnson said, and went back to sorting through papers on her desk.

  I sat down in a stiff chair and waited for what seemed like a dog’s age. Eventually a buzzer sounded on Miss Johnson’s desk and I jumped.

  “He will see you now,” she said, nodding towards a heavy oak door that led to an inner office.

  My throat was dry as I pushed open the door and walked in. Mr. Carlson sat behind his desk. Again I was struck with the stacks of papers and boxes and ornaments of every sort that filled his office. It looked like a secondhand shop. And it was dusty too. I fought back a sneeze.

  Mr. Carlson peered at me with pale eyes the color of dishwater.

  “Sit down,” he said. “You know by now of course that the American soldiers have arrived in Queensbrook.”

  My mouth fell open in surprise. This was the last thing I had expected him to say. I nodded and said nothing.

  “We in Queensbrook want to do all we can to make them feel welcome. After all they are here for our protection.” He paused but obviously was not looking for any comments from me. “To that end, I am hosting a dinner and reception—for the officers and other dignitaries—tomorrow evening at Temperance Hall.”

  I wondered briefly how the Yanks would enjoy a teetotaling dinner.

  “And,” Carlson continued, “it has been suggested to me that we should have the Linen Queen attend and make a presentation to them—some small token of our appreciation. I’m thinking of a set of our finest linen products for the commanding officer.” He paused. “I have arranged for Mrs. McAteer to polish up the tiara and bring it over to the hall tomorrow evening and to assist you in looking your best for the occasion.”

  An image came into my mind of Hannah McAteer polishing away on the tiara, her teeth gritted, and I almost laughed aloud. Ah, that would be something to see all right.

  Carlson stood up and signaled that I was dismissed. “Come at six o’clock sharp, Miss McGee, so that you can rehearse what you have to do. And remember, you will be representing not only Queens-brook, but all the linen mills in our province. It is an honor very few girls of your… er… very few mill workers would ever experience in their lifetimes. I hope you will take seriously its significance.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  I made my way out of his office and past Miss Johnson and Mary McAteer and out into the corridor. I didn’t realize until then that I had been holding my breath the whole time. I let it out now. I was so excited that my heart thudded to beat the band. Of course I had caught his remark about being a poor mill worker, but I let it go. I wouldn’t be one for long. Maybe this was the chance I’d been waiting for. I was being asked to show myself off to the Yanks—to the top officers mind you, not the rank-and-file soldiers. A smile spread across my face and stayed there for the rest of the day.

  The next evening I marched through the front door of the Temperance Hall. The hall was empty and hushed. A long head table ran across the far end of the room, and a number of round tables had been arranged throughout the hall. The tables were covered with stiff white linen cloths, and fine china and crystal glinted in the evening light. I took a deep breath and felt myself swell with excitement.

  “There you are!” Mrs. McAteer’s sharp voice cut the silence. “You were supposed to come in the side door, you know.” She sniffed loudly, and her lips drew into a thin line of disapproval. “Well, as long as you are here let me go through the procedure with you. You are to wait until the cue from Mr. Carlson, which will occur at the end of the speeches. Then you will walk, slowly and in a ladylike manner, from the door of the anteroom over there and pause in front o
f Mr. Carlson and the army commander.”

  “What’s his name?” I interrupted.

  “What? Who?”

  “The commander.”

  “Turner,” she said, “but that’s none of your business, miss.” Her face had flushed an odd purple color. “As I said, at Mr. Carlson’s cue you are to walk towards the head table and pause. Then, when General Turner stands up you are to hand him the package of linens.”

  “Do I curtsy?” I asked just to annoy her, but she took me seriously.

  “That will not be necessary, Miss McGee. You are to present the general with the package, smile, and turn and leave. You will not linger. And under no circumstances will you make eye contact with anyone at the head table or with any of the guests. Is that clear?”

  I shrugged.

  “Do I make myself clear, Miss McGee?”

  Mrs. McAteer’s face was so comical I almost burst out laughing. If she could only see herself—she looked like an angry turkey. She must have been livid that it was me who was getting this chance and not her daughter, Mary. I followed her into the small room off the hall where we had all got ourselves ready the night of the Linen Queen competition. It was hard to believe it had been over a year ago. I had brought the same blue frock that I had worn that night and at every Linen Queen event since. Mrs. McAteer sniffed as she eyed it up and down.

  “I thought you might have worn something new. That dress appears to have seen better days.”

  “It’s the only one I have,” I said.

  “Oh, and those shoes!” she exclaimed. “They’re not suitable at all.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” I said, looking down at my high-heeled, open-toed sandals. “Should I have worn my oul’ boots?”

  She ignored me, but I could tell by the way she dug the clips into my head to secure the tiara that she was very put out. When she was finished, she told me to sit down and wait. It was going to be a long night. I could hear voices as people began to fill the hall. I was dying to put my head round the door to see what was happening, but Mrs. McAteer stood like an army sergeant beside me and I dared not move. My chance came eventually when she was distracted with the arrival of a teacher from the local school along with a number of young boys and girls who were to sing and dance for the guests. I slid off my chair and opened up the connecting door just a crack. Mr. Carlson sat at the center of the long table at the head of the room. To his left sat the mayor of Newry with his big gold chain draped around his neck. To Mr. Carlson’s right sat a good-looking, stiff-backed man in a uniform. I supposed this was General Turner.