‘For God’s sake, don’t you start!’
The thousands of fires sparked by the incendiaries caught hold in houses, shops, mills and factories. They joined together, devoured everything in their path and, within an hour, the sky across the city was one enormous conflagration. In Manor Street, close to the city centre, the upstairs bedroom was bathed in an eerie red glow and still the three women stood at the window waiting for the real damage to begin.
A soft whimpering startled them and they turned to see Aunt Hannah struggling to raise her head.
Aggie rushed to her side. ‘There, there, everything’s fine.’
But Aunt Hannah gripped her hand. ‘Am I …’ she struggled to speak. ‘Am I dead?’
‘Ach sure, no.’ Aggie stroked the wisps of white hair from the old woman’s face. ‘Amn’t I here with you?’
Aunt Hannah licked her cracked lips. ‘Am I … in hell?’
‘Of course you’re not.’ Then, realising she could see the glow of the flames, Aggie added, ‘it’s just a fire outside, that’s all.’
‘Is it a bone-fire?’
‘Aye,’ said Aggie, ‘that’s it – the bone-fire. Now you go back to sleep, for haven’t we to be up early in the morning to go and watch the Orangemen?’
And Aunt Hannah closed her eyes, all the better to listen to the pipe band.
The night wore on and the incendiaries gave way to high explosives and parachute bombs and the area under attack widened. Soon the deafening noise of exploding shells encircled Manor Street. In the bedroom they had closed the curtains for fear of the windows blowing in. A bomb exploded at the end of the street, so close it shook the house and they thought their eardrums had burst.
‘Is there anything under the bed?’ asked Martha.
‘Probably a week’s worth of dust. Why?’ said Aggie.
‘Maybe we should crawl under it?’ Martha suggested.
‘But what about Aunt Hannah?’
The old woman’s breaths were laboured and rasping again and Martha, embarrassed at her suggestion, sought to make amends. ‘I’ll go down and fill a hot jar; her hands are like ice. I’ll make us some tea too.’
‘Get a few broken biscuits from the boxes in the shop,’ shouted Grace after her, ‘We may as well eat something.’
The kitchen retained some heat from the range and while the kettle boiled Martha stood over it warming her hands and listening to the steady falling of bombs. She hoped that Irene, Pat and Peggy, being further away from the city centre, were safe. She filled the hot jar for Aunt Hannah, then poured the tea, found a tray and carried it up to them.
‘Did you forget the biscuits?’ asked Grace.
‘Ach, my head’s away. I’ll go and get them.’
‘Never bother yourself, sure it doesn’t matter.’
‘No, no, I’ll go and get them.’
There was enough light coming through the shop window for Martha to find the Crawford biscuit tins behind the counter. She was just searching for some broken custard creams when there was a loud crump from outside. She froze in the moment of silence that followed and as the bomb exploded the air was sucked from her lungs and she was flung hard against the wall. There was a final shudder and the entire stock rained down on her head.
It was well past three in the morning when the last of the bombs fell on the city, but by then Martha’s girls had already closed their eyes and, in the cramped space, had found a soft part of a sister on which to lay their head and fall into a deep sleep. The knocking on the front door did not wake them.
The knocking on the kitchen window caused Irene to stir a little, but it wasn’t until there was banging on the back door and a man’s voice shouting that she jumped up, wide awake, and banged her head on the step above her. She quickly shook her sisters. ‘Wake up there’s someone at the door!’
There was a sharp intake of breath from Pat. ‘It sounds like William. What’s he doing here? He mustn’t see me, Irene. You’ll have to get rid of him!’
Irene crawled out into the kitchen and called behind her, ‘When I go to let him in, you two sneak away upstairs.’
William brought the smell of smoke into the cold kitchen with him and stood looking pale and drawn, twisting his hat in his hands. ‘I’ve come for Pat, where is she?’
‘She’s upstairs. What time is it?’
‘After six.’
‘Time we were ready for work.’
‘Ha!’ His laugh was humourless. ‘Don’t bother yourself, there’ll be no work today.’
‘Is it really bad?’
He sighed deeply and rubbed his hand across his eyes as if wiping away the scenes he had witnessed. ‘It’s been burning all night. They couldn’t save much.’
‘The aircraft factory?’
‘Gone.’
Irene covered her mouth, stifling a cry.
‘Everything,’ he went on, ‘what the bombs missed, the fire consumed. It’s burning still.’
‘Did the firewatchers and the fire brigade not–’
‘There was no water.’
‘No water!’
‘It was low tide – they couldn’t get the pressure. And anyway the bombs had ruptured hundreds of water mains.’
‘Mammy stayed down in Manor Street last night with her cousins. Do you know if that was bombed?’
‘There’s damage in that area, but I don’t know the detail yet.’
The door opened and Peggy came in wrapped in her dressing gown. ‘What’s going on?’
‘William says we can’t go to work, it’s all been bombed or burned.’
‘Not Goldstein’s shop?’
William didn’t answer; he was looking past her to where Pat stood fully dressed in the doorway.
‘Hello, William.’
‘Get your coat, Pat.’
‘I don’t need a lift from you. I’ll get the bus like I always do.’ Her tone was dismissive.
Her sisters looked at her in amazement. ‘Pat, the bombing–’
‘Is Stormont still standing?’ she directed the question to William.
‘It is,’ he said.
‘In that case, I’ll be in at the usual time to collate the information on the bombing and write you a report.’
‘As your superior officer, I’m ordering you to get your coat and come with me.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that, I’m–’
‘There’s no time to waste. I’m not waiting in Stormont for reports! It’s chaos out there and I need to tour the city first-hand to see the situation and I need you, Pat’ – he spat out her name – ‘I need you to record my findings in detail, so there’ll be no delay in implementing effective emergency measures!’ He paused, drew breath and, struggling to control his temper, repeated in a low voice, ‘Now, get your coat.’
Outside the sky glowed pink, not the colour of dawn, but of disaster. They drove towards the city in silence and soon the first signs of the bombing were evident: rows of houses smouldering, their roofs all but gone; craters in the road; slates strewn everywhere, crunching under the tyres.
William stopped the car at the end of Manor Street. ‘Irene said your mother was staying here last night. Go and check she’s all right.’
The gable wall at the end of the road had collapsed, exposing the rooms with the wallpaper stripped and hanging like rags, and every window in the street had gone. Pat began to run, past the people sweeping up glass, and a man trying to board up a window with an old door. ‘Please God let her be safe,’ she whispered. The shop was on the end of a row of terraced houses. It was still there! She quickened her pace. The window had gone and the door was hanging off its hinges.
Inside, Pat picked her way through the stock that had been hurled from the shelves – blackened cans, burst packets – past a set of scales balanced precariously on an upturned crate of apples, and towards the chenille curtain at the back of the shop. She stopped … listened … could it be her mother’s voice?
She rushed into the room and there in the ar
mchair was Martha, her clothes blackened and torn. Aggie was kneeling on the floor beside her, bathing a wound on Martha’s forehead.
‘Mammy, are you all right? You’re bleeding!’ shouted Pat.
‘Ach, she’s fine, aren’t you Martha?’ said Aggie.
But Martha was already on her feet. The sight of Pat had made her think the worst. ‘What’s happened? Is it Irene, Peggy? Where are they?’
‘No, no, it’s all right. They’re safe.’
‘But what are you doing here at this hour? Why aren’t you at home?’
‘I have to go to work; there are things to be done.’
Martha shook her head in disbelief. ‘God have mercy, child, are you mad?’
‘I wanted to make sure you were safe.’
Martha’s tone softened. ‘Aye well, I’m glad to see you. I’ll survive. But mind you if I hadn’t bent down to get those custard creams who knows what state I’d be in now. The counter took the brunt of the blast, praise be to God.’
‘But that’s a bad cut on your head, you’ll need to get it seen to,’ said Pat.
‘There was so much flying about in the blast, something knocked me out, but sure the bleeding’s nearly stopped now.’
‘Grace has gone to get the doctor,’ said Aggie. ‘We’ll ask him to have a look at it when he comes round. Oh Pat, you’ll not know that Aunt Hannah died during the night.’
‘Ach no,’ said Pat, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She slipped away in her sleep,’ explained Aggie, ‘with all hell breaking loose around us and your poor mother buried under our entire stock.’
‘Pat, if you’re sure Irene and Peggy are fine then I’ll stay here a while to help clear up,’ said Martha.
‘Aye, of course they are. I’ll try to find out what’s happening at the aircraft factory and at Mr Goldstein’s shop and whether they can go into work tomorrow.’ She didn’t mention what William had said about the damage. In fact, she thought it wise not to mention William at all.
Pat was dreading the hours that lay before her touring the devastated city. She wanted to be of use to William, but the firm set of his jaw and the fact that he didn’t look at her when she got back in the car made her wish that they could at least be civil to each other.
‘My mother’s safe,’ she told him.
‘Good,’ he replied, before slipping the car into gear and heading for the city centre.
For the next three hours, they inspected the major industrial areas. At the docks, the shipyard and aircraft factory, William dictated his findings and recommendations without a trace of emotion and Pat meticulously recorded them.
They left the car in Shaftesbury Square where the bomb damage was not so bad and walked towards the city centre. As the City Hall came into view their steps slowed then stopped altogether. A section of the roof was gone; only the black twisted rafters remained, silhouetted against the sky with a hundred spirals of smoke curling upwards.
Pat had been close to tears several times at the sights she had seen, but this was different. Soundlessly, the tears fell. How long did she and William stand there? Long enough to contemplate a frightening future where no one would go to bed with any certainty that they would be alive in the morning. She felt a touch on her arm, took the handkerchief William offered.
‘It’s lunchtime,’ he said, ‘let’s try to find somewhere to eat.’
The Pam-Pam was surprisingly busy despite the scenes of destruction just streets away, but the solemn look on the faces of the diners and their subdued talk gave it an eerie atmosphere. Without asking her, William ordered sandwiches and tea and they waited in silence for them to arrive. How strange to be here with William, thought Pat, when this is where we first met. She looked at the table where they had sat and pictured them there. They had come straight from work – she from the linen mill; he from Stormont, although she did not know that then. Goldstein had been with them, chatting about his idea to pair them up – the soprano and the tenor – to add some culture to his troupe of entertainers. William followed her gaze.
‘I was rude to you that day, wasn’t I?’ he said.
‘Not rude, a bit unfriendly maybe,’ she smiled.
‘I forgot my manners. I was angry because I didn’t even know you, yet Goldstein wanted us to sing together.’
‘I was embarrassed when he left us alone to discuss it.’
‘I know you were and I should have put you at your ease. I’d a lot on my mind, but that’s no excuse.’ For the first time that day William looked her in the eye. ‘But we did it, didn’t we?’ He leaned across the table and said softly. ‘Singing with you was so special. I wish …’ He hesitated, shook his head, ‘Pat I’m no good at this.’
The waitress arrived with the sandwiches and tea things. ‘I’m sorry we’ve no sugar, the wee bit we had went this morning.’
William looked away.
‘That’s fine,’ said Pat, ‘we’ll do without,’ and busied herself pouring tea, then filling the half-empty pot with hot water. In the past she would have left William’s words hanging between them, assuming she had no right to ask him to explain, but she’d had enough of his inability to express his feelings.
‘No good at what, William?’
‘You and me … I can’t get it right. I want to, but then the work just seems to elbow everything else out of the way. How can I …’ He struggled for the right words, ‘How can I be courting you when all the time I’m thinking about shelters and searchlights and evacuating children? I can’t be that selfish, do you see?’
‘I do see, of course I do. There’s nothing more important than the work you’re doing. I know that because every day I see what you’re trying to do.’
‘But you know what makes it even harder?’ He leaned forward searching her face, ‘It’s having you there by my side. Every day is a struggle to concentrate on what needs to be done when I just want to … oh, I don’t know … just get in the car and drive away with you as far from Belfast as we can get. Imagine you and me in Donegal.’
‘You’re saying I distract you?’
‘Yes. No. I feel as though I should be paying you more attention.’
‘I’ve never–’
‘I know you haven’t, but … you mean so much to me and I want to show you how I feel. Trouble is, in the midst of all this’ – and he waved his hand towards the window and beyond – ‘it seems so …’
‘Irrelevant?’
‘I was going to say inappropriate.’
Pat turned away. The tears would surely fall if she looked any longer at William’s anguished face. Misery settled in both their hearts.
William absent-mindedly picked up a sandwich and returned it to the plate uneaten. Pat smoothed the tablecloth. Time slipped away and left them alone.
Eventually Pat spoke. ‘Maybe I should resign or get a transfer to another department. That way you won’t be thinking about us.’
‘Not that, Pat, please. I need you to support me in the work,’ his voice cracked, ‘and, God help me, I need you because I can’t bear to be parted from you.’
She took a deep breath, ‘Nor I from you.’
It seemed the discussion had reached an impasse and they sat in silence, the sandwiches and tea untouched, but both of them glad that their feelings had been shared. Again it was Pat who broke the silence. ‘At work we can be together, for now that’s the most important thing. But you must stop thinking about my feelings – I’ll be your colleague and friend, but you need to focus on what this city needs.’
‘And you’d be happy with that?’
‘I would,’ she said, ‘until the chance comes along to escape to Donegal.’
They left the Pam-Pam and within minutes were picking their way along the middle of the road and past the main shops at Donegall Place. The street was running with water from burst mains and on either side buildings were still smouldering. A police sergeant was standing outside Anderson and McAuley department store, surrounded by the shattered remains of th
e plate glass windows. William introduced himself and asked for an appraisal of the situation.
The sergeant stood to attention and delivered the information as though it was a report from his notebook. ‘No electricity, water mains blown to hell, gas mains too with a danger of explosion. The engineers are shutting them down as quickly as they can. Some looting early on, but we’ve got officers on the streets now to deter them.’
On they went, towards Royal Avenue where they came across some shop workers half-heartedly picking over the debris, trying to salvage their stock. Here and there workmen had begun to board up windows. In the faces of the people they passed, they saw only despair and the realisation that such devastation could never be put right.
And then they were outside Goldstein’s music shop. The windows were gone and, lying like a paper pathway, out of the shop and into the road, were scattered hundreds of copies of sheet music sucked out by the updraft of a nearby explosion. Inside the shop Goldstein was sitting on the piano stool in front of the baby grand, hands clasped in front of him, his head bent. Startled by the noise of them trampling over glass, he looked up, but didn’t seem to recognise them.
‘Mr Goldstein, it’s me Pat Goulding. William Kennedy’s with me. Are you all right?’
He stood up, gave an elaborate shrug of his shoulders and lifted his hands. ‘The inevitable has happened, my shop has been bombed, but I thank God that I am still alive and, make no mistake, I will soon be back in business. Someone is coming this afternoon to board up the windows and tomorrow we will begin the clear up. You must tell Peggy to come in as usual and that she must wear her oldest clothes.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said William, ‘I wish I could bottle that, it’s exactly what’s needed to get through this.’
‘Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking sitting here this morning,’ said Goldstein. ‘The people of Belfast were stoic after the Easter bombings, but this is much worse and life is going to get a lot harder. You know, I met a young man last week at the synagogue; some friends helped him get out of Poland. He told me …’ He paused, then shook his head, as if the boy’s words were too painful to repeat, and waved his hand at the chaos in the shop. ‘This is nothing compared to what others are suffering who find themselves under the Nazi jackboot. Ways must be found to get through the anguish that’s coming. I tried before to raise people’s spirits when I formed the Barnstormers, but after the last bombing I lost heart. I thought people wouldn’t want entertainment when they’d lost so much, but I was wrong. They do not know it yet, but music and laughter are exactly what they need and it is my job to provide them.’
Golden Sisters Page 9