Golden Sisters

by Alrene Hughes

  ‘Yes I know, I know,’ he said and kissed her again.

  They lost all sense of time passing as they held each other on the bench by the tulips, but Pat in her thin dress eventually became aware of the cool shade as the sun moved behind the clouds. She shivered.

  ‘You’re cold,’ said William and he rubbed her bare arms. Then he undid the button of her cardigan. ‘Here, put this on properly and we’ll have a warm drink in the café.’

  They sat at a table by the window, drank tea and ate buttered scones with raspberry jam and the conversation flowed easily.

  ‘You know we have a summer garden party at Stormont every year?’ he told her.

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Oh it’s a really grand affair – the great and the good turn up in their finery and the Civil Service choir and orchestra provide the entertainment. You know, like we did at Christmas. You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’

  Pat nodded, remembering the wonderful evening when she’d sung in the choir in the great hall at Stormont. ‘Yes, Aunt Kathleen came to watch us and she said we should have been the soloists.’

  ‘Aah, those Saturday afternoons when we went to her house for singing lessons …’ his voice trailed off. ‘You know, I really miss all that.’

  ‘What, Aunt Kathleen shouting at you because you’d forgotten you had a diaphragm and your breathing was all wrong?’

  William laughed, ‘And you being told to sing with passion.’ Then he was serious again. ‘It all seems so long ago, not just that concert but the performances with the Barnstormers and Goldstein knocking us into shape. Remember when he wanted you and me to be like Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy, Belfast’s sweethearts he called us.’

  Pat lowered her eyes; she had always been embarrassed by that role. ‘But it wasn’t to be, was it?’ she whispered.

  William reached out and lifted her chin. ‘But it could be, Pat, you and me – sweethearts.’

  She couldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t acknowledge what was in her heart, couldn’t be certain of his intentions. ‘You’re not suggesting we sing again as the Mountie and the Indian squaw? That was never a success, was it?’

  His fingers fell from her chin. ‘No, no,’ he said quietly, ‘I wasn’t suggesting that.’

  At once Pat felt awkward but she could see no way of bringing back the moment and William, too, sensed its loss. He cleared his throat and said briskly, ‘I think it’s brightening up. What about having a look at the zoo while we’re here?’

  Pat had been to the zoo once before as a child when her father had taken her and Irene as a treat. Her abiding memory of the day was of her father trying to persuade her to have a ride on the elephant – an enormous beast with dusty grey skin that hung from its body in folds. He had held her high above his head towards the arms of the zoo keeper on the elephant’s back and she had screamed and kicked in fear, more terrified of the strange man trying to grab her than the animal.

  William held her hand as they walked the paths, looking in paddocks and identifying the animals, before moving on to the cages of the more exotic inmates. Finally, they followed the path signposted ‘Cats’. The crowd was bigger there, the more exotic the animal the longer people lingered. The leopard lay comatose, its mangy coat dull and scabby. Before the war there had been a furrier in Donegall Place and Pat recalled seeing a crowd outside it one Saturday and, curious to know what they were looking at, she had crossed the road. In the window was a solitary white mannequin draped in a stunning leopard-skin coat.

  There was a railing across the front of the cage to keep people away from the animal but, as they watched, a man ducked under it and ran a walking stick across the bars. ‘Wake up,’ he shouted, ‘we’ve come to see ye!’

  In a split second the leopard was on its feet and had launched itself against the bars, teeth bared, claws scrabbling at the stick and the man. There was a loud crack and the bars bent outwards bringing a chunk of the metal, in which they were anchored, away from the roof of the cage.

  The screaming and shouting that followed seemed to enrage the animal even more. Those at the railing turned in their panic and pushed into the crowd behind them. Pat pulled William away, but he resisted and continued to stare at the leopard as it charged again at the bars.

  ‘William, come on!’ she shouted and they joined the crowd hurrying away from the scene.

  Further along the path half a dozen keepers ran past them with pitchforks and spades and Pat was astonished to see one of them carrying a shotgun. Moments later a single crack of gunfire reverberated across the hillside.

  ‘They’ve shot it!’ Pat cried. ‘That poor animal.’

  ‘It’s a good thing they did; it could have killed somebody.’

  ‘No it couldn’t, it only reacted because that man frightened it. It was a pathetic creature, just like the rest of those animals in cages.’

  William was staring down the hill at the streets of houses far below. ‘No, they’re dangerous. Given a set of circumstances where their cages became damaged and they felt threatened, they wouldn’t only escape, they’d be capable of killing, I’m sure.’

  ‘William, what are you talking about? It was one scared animal and they shot it.’

  ‘But don’t you see? If this area was bombed, these animals could escape. They’d be on the streets below here in minutes. Can you imagine the scene?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Pat listen, this is serious. I’m going to have to talk to someone at the ministry about this. And sooner rather than later.’

  Pat saw the look on his face. ‘Do you mean now?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Something needs to be done quickly. I think we were about to go home anyway. I’ll walk you to the bus.’

  Pat gave him a withering look. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, not when you’ve more important matters to deal with.’

  William hesitated. ‘It’s just that …’ and he began to walk away from her. ‘Look, I’ll see you tomorrow at work.’

  Pat shook her head in disbelief and at that moment raindrops as big as florins began to fall. Faster and faster they came and by the time she got to the bus stop at the bottom of the hill she was soaked through. Perhaps she should have listened to her mother.

  Sheila was glad to find a seat on the bus next to a girl her own age who introduced herself as Lizzie.

  ‘Looks like we’re the oldest on the bus,’ Lizzie said. ‘Have you been to Dungannon before?’

  ‘No,’ said Sheila, ‘Have you?’

  ‘No, but I think it’s a long way away.’

  The roads out of the city were busy for a Sunday. ‘Where do you think all these people are going?’ Sheila asked.

  ‘My daddy says lots of people are trying to get away from Belfast. They’re going to stay with family or friends in the country, away from the bombs, but sure we don’t know anyone, so he got me evacuated.’ She sighed. ‘I just hope a nice family pick me.’

  In all the upset and preparation around leaving, Sheila had never thought about how the evacuees would be paired up with a family. What if she didn’t like the people who picked her? Worse still, what if nobody picked her?

  They left the city behind as the sun came up and soon the road was edged with hedgerows of hawthorn and wild fuchsia, beyond which the patchwork fields spread over the gentle hills into the distance. They passed through villages, glimpsing neat rows of little houses, a few bars, and in some, a shop or two. On and on they travelled through the morning with the heat rising. One by one the passengers discarded their coats, jumpers, cardigans. They stopped once at a mission hall with a tin roof and women gave them each a sandwich and a drink of water. Then they were back on the stifling bus.

  Around midday the woman in charge made her way to the front of the bus and spoke to all of them. ‘We’re coming into Dungannon now and the bus will drop us at the dispersal centre. Remember to be on your best behaviour. Don’t let yourselves down.’

  The
centre turned out to be a church hall. Inside, wooden chairs were set out as though for a meeting and at the front stood a man with a sheet of paper. There was some confusion at the door, a few of the little ones were reluctant to be the first to step into the hall and walk under its echoing roof. They were herded in and, with sterner voices than necessary, were ordered to sit down quickly.

  The man in charge spoke rapidly. ‘I’ll check yer names, see if youse is all here. If youse is all here that’ll be fine. Then youse’ll wait ’til someone comes tae take ye. If nobody takes ye youse’ll be allocated to somebody later.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘I don’t know, couldn’t make him out. Do you think they’ll all sound like that?’

  ‘If they do we’ll need to learn another language.’

  The man began to call out names and the children answered as though it was a register taken in class, but by the end Sheila’s name hadn’t been called.

  ‘Should I go and tell him?’ she asked Lizzie.

  ‘I don’t know. He might send you back if you’re not on the list.’

  ‘I’ll wait a wee while, maybe tell him later,’ said Sheila.

  The children sat in the hall, alert and expectant, and a few minutes later an elderly couple came in. The man in charge spoke to them. They nodded and went to stand at the front to look at the children. It was evident they were discussing them. As Sheila watched they appeared to reach a decision and pointed at a girl of about eleven. She was well dressed in a coat with a velvet collar and a beret. She was brought to the front, her name was crossed off, the elderly man signed for her and all three left the hall.

  And so it went on all through the afternoon. The younger ones and well-dressed ones went first. Sheila and Lizzie being the oldest were beginning to think they’d be sent back to Belfast. Then around four o’clock a red-faced man in a checked suit came into the hall. He nodded at the man with the sheet, stood in front of the few remaining children and addressed them all.

  ‘Now then, where’s the wee lad with the bicycle?’

  Nobody moved.

  ‘There’s a bicycle propped up outside and I’m told it got here by bus from Belfast with a wee boy.’

  Sheila stood up. ‘I think that would be me.’

  ‘You’re not a boy.’

  ‘No,’ said Sheila sharply, ‘but it’s my bicycle.’

  ‘Is it indeed?’ he looked her up and down. ‘And tell me, can you ride it?’

  Sheila met his gaze. ‘Of course I can, or there’d be no point in bringing it with me.’

  ‘I wonder, are you as sharp with reckoning as you are with your tongue?’

  ‘I am,’ said Sheila bluntly.

  ‘I’ll have her,’ he turned to the man in charge, ‘where do I sign?’

  Sheila came out to the front and the man consulted his list. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sheila Goulding.’

  ‘No one of that name here,’ he said. ‘I’ve a Sheila Gardiner.’

  Sheila imagined the long journey home, the shame of not being picked. ‘That’s me,’ she said.

  She followed the man outside, collected her bike from against the wall and wheeled it into the street. She glanced sideways at him. He was tall and heavily built with a long stride and she had trouble keeping up with him. They walked in silence a hundred yards up a hill to a square. As they waited for a horse and cart to pass he seemed suddenly to remember she was at his side. He turned and thrust out his hand ‘McManus.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr McManus,’ said Sheila shaking his hand. ‘Have we far to go?’

  He pointed to the opposite side of the square at the sign across a double-fronted shop, ‘Francis McManus and Son, High Class Butchers and Slaughter Men’. By the time Sheila had read it, McManus was halfway across the road and she had to rush after him. They went up the side of the shop and in the back door.

  ‘Bridie!’ he called.

  ‘I’m coming.’ There was the sound of movement above them, then a creaking of each stair as someone slowly descended. The door opened and a woman came into the room sideways, manoeuvring her huge frame through the door.

  ‘Frank, I thought you said you were coming back with a messenger boy?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘She is what?’

  ‘A messenger boy.’

  ‘Frank, she’s a girl!’

  ‘I know that, but she’s got her own delivery bike.’

  ‘And where’s she going to sleep? She … I mean the delivery boy … was meant to be sharing Dermot’s room.’

  ‘Aye well, sure she can sleep in the outhouse, there’s a bed in there.’

  Bridie McManus sighed heavily and lowered herself into a chair. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sheila.’

  ‘Well now, Sheila. Go upstairs to the hot press on the landing and get yourself a couple of sheets and blankets and a pillow. Then you and me will go and sort out a wee house for you to live in. How’s that?’

  The outhouse was a small whitewashed building at the end of the yard with a green door and a small grimy window. Bridie took a large, rusty key from the hook on the wall and opened the door.

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ she said. ‘Away you in and have a look and come out and tell me what you think.’

  It took a moment for Sheila’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. Over to the left was a recess with an open hearth and to one side some wooden shelves; in the middle of the room was a table with two chairs up-ended and stacked on top. To the right was another recess, this time with a raised area covered by a flock mattress. She moved into the room and felt the cobwebs catch across her face, under her feet the floor was gritty, hard-packed earth.

  ‘Well?’ said Bridie when Sheila reappeared. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Can we boil some water, and have you a scrubbing brush and bucket?’

  Bridie showed her how to work the pump in the yard. ‘No running water out of a tap here,’ she said. ‘And there’s the privy, no flushing toilets here either. You’re not in Belfast any more!’

  Sheila worked through the late afternoon and on towards twilight when Bridie brought her out a couple of Tilly lamps – ‘No electricity here at the flick of a switch.’ She carried on into the evening, sweeping, scrubbing, washing down, returning again and again to empty filthy water down the drain. When the moon was high over the outhouse, Sheila made up the bed and, without taking her clothes off, fell into a deep sleep.

  She took her breakfast with the family in the main house. Dermot the youngest son took after his father. He was a big lad for fifteen, with a ruddy complexion, but unlike his father he seemed shy and blushed when Sheila said good morning. The daughter, Rose, looked like she might take after her mother for size, but then Sheila realised she was pregnant.

  Rose greeted Sheila warmly. ‘I hope you were all right last night in that oul shed.’

  ‘I was except for all the beetles that came out in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Argh,’ said Rose, ‘that’s terrible!’

  ‘They’ll be in the crevices in the stonework,’ said her husband John. ‘We get them sometimes in the slaughterhouse. I’ll bring some DDT home with me and spray the place.’

  The breakfast was an enormous fry – two eggs, bacon, soda bread, and potato bread. Sheila had never eaten so much in the morning.

  ‘I’ll bet you don’t get a good feed like that in Belfast,’ said Bridie.

  ‘No,’ laughed Sheila, ‘I’ll be the size of a mountain when I get home!’ and wished immediately that she hadn’t said it.

  When they’d all eaten their fill, McManus pushed back his chair and said, ‘Now then, Sheila, time to earn your keep.’

  In the shop he showed her a notice in the window that he’d made the previous evening. ‘Free home delivery of meat over five shillings.’

  Sheila nodded, ‘Oh, I see … meat’s heavy to carry home when you’ve got other groceries and people might spend a bit more to get it deliver
ed.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you see the benefit. I’d a job getting the rest of them to understand. Now, when you’re not out delivering on your bike, you can serve in the shop. Rose does that, but with her, er …’ – he searched for suitable words to use – ‘with her condition, she could do with more help. She’ll show you how the scales and bacon slicer and things work.’

  ‘Oh, I can work scales and a bacon slicer already,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Can you indeed?’ McManus looked impressed.

  Sheila served in the shop all morning and Rose was glad to have someone working with her. ‘My mother helps out if we get busy, especially Saturdays. My father stays in the back most of the time doing the butchering, but then he goes to meat auctions or to farms some days. Dermot and John work at the slaughterhouse. You wouldn’t catch them in the shop.

  ‘You’re quick at adding up aren’t you?’ said Rose after watching Sheila tot up a list of six items in her head.

  Unlike Belfast, there seemed to be no shortage of meat in the window and not one of the customers was refused what they asked for. After lunch there were several orders to be delivered. Rose put them in order to create a sensible delivery route.

  ‘Now the addresses are written on each parcel,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll give you directions to the first house and you can ask there for directions to the next house. Easy!’

  Easy enough if at each house someone was at home, firstly to take the meat and, secondly to give the directions. Within half an hour, Sheila was hopelessly lost, having left blood-soaked parcels on several Dungannon doorsteps in the heat of the day. She stopped at a crossroads that had no signpost, determined not to panic, and climbed a five-bar gate to see the lie of the land. The town was below her to the left. She would take the road straight ahead and look for a left-hand turning.

  She rounded a bend and the road dropped steeply in front of her, she took her feet off the pedals and free-wheeled, gathering speed. The wind raced past, cooling her body through her cotton dress. She stuck her legs out … faster and faster … She opened her mouth and let the noise of excitement stream out of her.