Sophie shrugged, lifting the delft out of the basin and placing them on the draining-rack. ‘I suppose it’s for prescriptions as well, with them being closed the Monday and Tuesday. I think having Christmas on the Sunday this year has confused things as well because they have to get an extra day off for the bank holiday.’
‘True,’ Mona said, her round face thoughtful. ‘That’s a nice Irish fella Kirsty’s workin’ with at the singin’ . . . good-lookin’ and well-dressed too. Is it Dublin he’s from? What’s his name again?’
‘Larry Delaney, and he is from Dublin. He’s been very good to her,’ Sophie said, warming to the conversation. She left the dishes to dry on their own and came back to sit down at the table. ‘He called round last night and dropped off half a dozen beautiful dresses for her to pick from for that big New Year’s ball. You should see them, all sequins and pearls and one has a fancy shawl to go with it. He even brought long gloves to match each dress.’
‘And are they upstairs?’ Mona asked, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, interested. ‘I’d love to get a look at them.’
Sophie frowned and adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. She really only needed them for reading and sewing, and most of the time she forgot to take them off. ‘God knows what state the room will be in . . . they’re always rushing at the last minute and I haven’t had time to make their beds yet or anything.’ She felt cornered now; the last person she wanted to have nosing around the bedrooms was the fussy Mona who made a virtue of being up early every Monday to clean her windows after making all her beds and hanging her washing out. ‘I usually tidy the room for them first thing in the morning, but I’ve that much sewing to do I never got the chance to make my own bed, never mind theirs.’
Sophie suddenly got to her feet now, thinking that if she got a few steps ahead of her sister-in-law, she might manage to close all the other doors and not have her peering in at the towels that Fintan had probably dropped on the bathroom floor after washing this morning.
Mona got to her feet, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Don’t be so silly, Sophie, sure there’s nobody lookin’ at the beds or the state of the house.’ She shook her head incredulously, smiling benignly, as if she were the most easy-going housewife in the world. ‘All I’m interested in is seeing these fancy stage rig-outs, no’ lookin’ around for dust.’ She followed Sophie out into the hall, keeping as close behind her as she could. ‘And where did you say that he got the dresses from?’ she asked as they mounted the stairs.
‘I’m not sure,’ Sophie replied, trying to get a step or two ahead of the heftier Mona. ‘I think he has a finger in a lot of pies, and he must know somebody that hires them out or something like that.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you something,’ Mona said, cracking out in laughter, ‘with looks like that, he can stick his finger in my pie any day!’
‘Mona Grace!’ Sophie said, coming to a standstill a few steps from the top. She was laughing along with it, but fairly shocked at the same time. ‘That’s not what you were sayin’ earlier when you were talking about poor Pat.’
‘Poor Pat, me arse!’ Mona said, her chin jutting out. ‘He’s been well looked after in that department all these years, and there’s five children to prove it.’
Sophie continued up to the landing, casually reaching out her left arm to close the sewing-room door and then swinging her right arm to close the door to her and Fintan’s room.
‘As I said before,’ Mona said airily, ‘this isn’t a house inspection. My own isn’t too tidy at the minute with Christmas presents and paper shoved into wardrobes and drawers.’
Yes, Sophie thought ruefully, but mine are scattered all over the floor and on top of the dressing-tables.
‘Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful!’ Mona said, her voice full of awe. She fingered the little beads on the bottom of one of the dresses. ‘They must have cost an absolute fortune.’
‘The material alone to make them,’ Sophie informed her, ‘would cost more than two or three frocks in the Household or Bairds.’ Both department stores in Wishaw were patronised by the females in the surrounding district for outfits for special occasions.
‘Oh, she’ll look stunning in them,’ Mona said wistfully. ‘With the lovely little figure Kirsty has on her, she can wear anything – absolutely anything.’ She held up a strapless taffeta dress, the red bodice sewn with tiny black seed pearls, with a plain black skirt flaring out underneath. ‘Oh, my God!’ she breathed. ‘What would you give to get into something like that again?’
Sophie lifted a midnight-blue, off-the-shoulder dress from the hastily tidied bed where they were all spread out, ignoring Mona’s comment, because she knew perfectly well her own weight and shape had hardly altered since she was Kirsty and Heather’s age. Mona just liked putting everybody in the same boat as herself and the couple of extra stone she was carrying. She looked closely at the blue dress, wondering if it was a bit too plain for the stage, and the dark colour a bit too sombre.
‘I think your Heather’s lost a bit of weight,’ Mona commented, her brow in a disapproving furrow. There were no compliments forthcoming, as there had been for Kirsty’s slim figure. ‘I suppose it’s all that running up and down to the station, and then the walk she has to the office. I’m not sure if it suits her . . . she looks a wee bit drawn to me. She’s not run down or anything, is she?’
‘She’s fine,’ Sophie said, almost snappily. ‘She’s just been cutting out the sweeties and biscuits to wear some of her nice fitted things for Christmas.’
‘This is a lovely dress,’ Mona said, changing the subject. She lifted up a boned black lace dress with a plunging neckline and the tiniest of straps. ‘But I don’t think Kirsty has quite enough on top to fill it! She’d need to shove a couple of socks into her brassiere.’
‘I think I’d need to shove a couple of socks into mine to make it fit!’ Sophie laughed. ‘This one’s lovely, too,’ she added, holding up a short-sleeved green satin empire-line dress with a small bow in the middle. ‘I think that colour would suit Kirsty.’
‘Mmm,’ Mona mused, pursing her lips together. ‘I think the red and black one is my favourite. I think it’s more festive-ish. It would go lovely with the long black gloves.’
Suddenly the doorbell went, and Sophie threw the dress down on top of the bed. ‘Just leave them there,’ she told Mona. ‘I’ll hang them all up later.’ Then she rushed downstairs.
Mona picked up the lace dress and examined the label. It was one she didn’t recognise, but then she hardly thought the dress had come from Marks and Spencer, even though she bought her own best clothes from there. She laid it in her lap and then turned to have a proper look around the untidy bedroom, tutting to herself as she did so. Her own lads were tidier than this, she thought – and the windows all needed a right good clean. Even downstairs in the living-room and sitting-room, the windows weren’t gleaming the way they should. It wasn’t that Sophie didn’t clean the windows, it was a case of not putting enough effort into it. They all needed buffing up with a bit of elbow grease and damp newspaper. Mona looked at the wardrobe mirror now, thinking that a rub over that wouldn’t go amiss either. It could all be fixed with just a bit more time and care spent on it.
But she knew that wasn’t likely to happen, because perfect housekeeping wasn’t a priority in this particular household – and young girls needed training and goading into keeping standards up.
There was no doubt about it – the blame lay at one door, and one door only: Sophie’s.
‘Mona!’ Sophie called back up to her now. ‘It’s your Patrick looking for you. He says a van has just pulled up with the new television!’
‘The television! Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Mona exclaimed, dropping the dress she was examining onto the bed. She came tearing down the stairs, breathless by the time she reached the bottom. ‘That blidey Pat, I’ll flamin’ well kill him!’ she panted. ‘Leavin’ me to deal with this and him gone into Wishaw to collect it! What am I goin
g to say to the man? What am I supposed to know about televisions and aerials?’
An hour or so later, when Sophie was downstairs getting the evening meal ready, Fintan came in.
‘That was a bit of a fiasco,’ he said, taking his coat off and laying it across the back of one of the chairs. ‘They told us at the shop that the television had already been sent out in a van. So, there was no need for us to go into Wishaw at all, and it was absolutely jam-packed.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Nothin’ but women and weans out doing last-minute Christmas shopping.’
‘I bet Pat was raging,’ Sophie said. ‘Did he go mad at the man behind the counter?’
‘No,’ Fintan said. ‘I was surprised myself. He just said he must have made a mistake. Maybe with Lily comin’ home tomorrow and everything, he just got mixed up.’
‘So what did you do?’ Sophie said, frowning, and putting down the knife that she was cutting potatoes with. ‘You were away a long time for just one shop.’
‘We went for a pint,’ Fintan admitted. ‘I think Pat wanted to have a chat.’
‘What about?’ Sophie asked.
‘Oh . . . everything and nothing. Lily, mainly. He’s awful worried about her, and then he went on about Mona.’ He looked over at Sophie, his eyebrows raised. ‘I think she’s giving him a hard time in every way.’
Sophie nodded her head slowly. ‘Once Lily’s out of hospital it’ll all blow over.’
Chapter 27
The restaurant was lovely, and just on one of the roads up from the Central Station. It was quite modern, with a fancy bar with coloured lights and lovely glass vases filled with real red carnations all over the place. They had a beautiful big imitation Christmas tree in the corner, Heather noted, lavishly decorated with different coloured tinsel and glass baubles. Just the perfect kind of tree, she thought, and no fear of pine needles dropping everywhere. The red velvet curtains and the thick white lace at the window gave a cosy feeling, and with the small lit candles on the tables it felt as though it was night-time as opposed to half past two on a Friday afternoon.
The staff of Seafreight had taken over two of the biggest tables in the restaurant, all done out in white linen tablecloths and festive paper napkins. Sprigs of holly and ivy, and smaller vases of red carnations, had been placed at intervals on the table beside candles. Heather looked along the table she was sitting at, discreetly glancing from under lowered eyelids at each of the eleven other people beside her – all wearing gold cardboard party hats just like herself. Everyone was dressed in their best – the women in dresses or pretty blouses and skirts, and the men all in well-starched shirts and fancier ties than they wore to work.
She had only been in the office a few weeks, and yet as she looked at all the friendly faces, she felt she’d been there for ever. And the new things she’d learned in that time were unbelievable. She was now taking letters in shorthand for all the more prominent men in the company, and had no problems going to check any words she wasn’t sure of. She’d been given a practically brand-new typewriter and a fancy, high-backed swivel chair and, contrary to what the lads in the office thought, she found Mr Walton a lovely, understanding man to work for.
‘That’s only because you’re a girl,’ Danny Fleming had told her with a sceptical note in his voice. ‘He’s always nice to the girls, but he can be a real tyrant with the men. He gave Maurice a right going-over this morning for making a mistake on a bill of lading. Maurice was that annoyed he said if it hadn’t been the Christmas holidays he’d have felt like telling oul’ Walton where to stick his job.’
Heather never knew which way to take Danny because he was always joking and messing around. She decided she would take each member of the staff as she found them. Consequently she kept well out of Muriel Ferguson’s way and one or two others. Muriel, she discovered, was constantly moaning about everything, and after being stuck with her at the break once or twice, Heather made sure she walked down to the canteen with some of the younger staff. And when she found she was really weakening with her food, she asked Danny or one of the girls to bring her up a cup of tea so she didn’t have to put herself through the agonies of avoiding the cake stands.
She looked down at herself now, delighted with the ten pounds she’d lost since starting work. When she’d looked in the big mirror in the Ladies this morning, she had been very pleased with her piled-up hair that Kirsty had helped her with before work, and the pink ruffled blouse and black pencil skirt she was wearing. Both were both sitting perfectly on her – no gaping at the buttons or stretching too tightly over her hips – just sitting perfectly and making her look taller and slimmer with the pink shoes that Kirsty had given her. Eating less had definitely paid off, and she was going to make up for all the nice things she’d missed recently by enjoying everything that was put in front of her today.
She lifted the small, fancily decorated menu card in front of her and read down the list. There were three starters, three main courses and half a dozen choices of dessert.
‘What are youse all havin’?’ Danny asked the group around him. He listened intently, head cocked to the side, as they all rhymed off their order. Most of them were going for the soup to start and the chicken with all the usual Christmas trimmings.
Danny was still not sure what to pick. ‘I don’t know whether to have the chicken or the steak.’ He paused. ‘Och, I suppose I’ll be eatin’ plenty of chicken over Christmas . . . so maybe I’ll just have the steak.’
Heather wondered whether to give everyone a laugh about the goose that they got sent over from her Uncle Joe in Ireland every year. She and Kirsty joked about it with their friends, as several of the others had relatives in Ireland with farms as well, who sent poultry over.
This year’s goose had arrived as usual, carefully wrapped in reams of strong brown paper and tied with rough, thick string, the kind of hairy string that hurt your hand if you had to carry a parcel by it for any length of time. And no matter how carefully Uncle Joe wrapped the goose, the wrapping didn’t last long. Every year without fail, the poor goose arrived bloody and battered with the string hanging off and the brown paper tattered and congealed with blood and the unfortunate goose’s innards. The sight and smell of the sad decapitated bird was quite awful. Thinking and talking about it always made Heather want to heave.
Some Christmases the bird got held up in the post – stuck in some unimaginable place like the dark and dank hold of a ship, amongst thousands of other more ordinary Christmas parcels, or maybe just stuck under a pile of post in the overflowing parcel department of the local depot.
On those annoying occasions, the goose would stink to high heaven, and would leave Sophie and Fintan hovering around wondering whether it was actually safe to eat. One year it didn’t arrive until almost New Year and the normally placid postman had complained bitterly about having to deliver such a disgusting, rank package.
‘Ye should just have dumped the feckin’ thing,’ Fintan had told him, mortified at the situation.
‘Against rules and regulations, pal,’ the postman had said, still bristling. ‘You could land in court – tamperin’ with Her Majesty’s Mail is a serious business. Even if it is a stinking rotten bird.’
‘That’s the last,’ Fintan had said to Sophie. ‘I’m going to have to tell Joe not to send any more. We can’t have that happening again.’
But as usual, he had never got around to it. And, thankfully, the last few years the goose had arrived in the few days leading up to Christmas in reasonable condition.
Listening to her workmates chatting away about the menu now, Heather decided against relating the goose story, thinking that it just might put them off their lovely meal. The waiter arrived bearing a big tray of drinks that Mr Walton had ordered for his staff as part of the Christmas treat. There would be a glass of wine with the meal, and then another drink to finish off while they all chatted in the bar afterwards. A few of the lads had rushed off ahead of everyone else and, by the looks of their bea
ming faces, had downed a few drinks before the rest arrived.
A sherry schooner was put down in front of all the girls at Heather’s end of the table. She looked at it now, surprised at the size of the glass. It was far bigger than the little sherry glasses her mother had at home, and it was plain glass, unlike Sophie’s, which had A present from Portobello written on them and a picture of Portobello beach.
She took a careful sip from the glass and was pleasantly surprised at the sweet taste. She had been going to order her usual lemonade shandy, but changed her mind when the girls all said that since Mr Walton was paying, they should have a proper drink. She was looking forward to trying the wine later, so she could go back home and compare it with the time Kirsty had it up in the hotel and Lanark.
After they’d had their soup and main course, everyone pronounced it was all lovely, then sat back sipping the remains of their wine and chatting about their plans for Christmas and New Year. ‘How d’you fancy comin’ to the Pavillion with us, Heather?’ Sara asked. ‘A crowd of us are goin’ to see Lex McLean the day before Hogmanay.’
Heather smiled broadly, delighted to be included. It made her feel she had really settled in. ‘I’d love to come,’ she said. ‘but I’ll have to check about how the trains or buses are running for getting back and everything.’
‘You could always stay the night at our house,’ Sarah offered, flicking back her brown hair. ‘I’ve got a double bed to myself.’
‘Thanks,’ Heather said, smiling again, but not quite knowing how to feel. She and Kirsty had always had single beds, and she didn’t know how she would react to sleeping next to someone else. ‘I’ll find out what’s arranged at home and let you know.’
Danny drained the last of his wine, making a loud, satisfied noise. ‘If Heather doesn’t want to stay,’ he put in, ‘then ye can put my name down to stop overnight, but I canny promise that I’ll keep to my own side of the bed!’
The Grace Girls Page 17