Golden Sisters

by Alrene Hughes

  ‘Aah, Martha, sure it’s been a pleasure. She’s great company, so she is, and she’s been such a help in the shop. I’ve got to say, Frank picked a good ’un when he went along to the church hall that day, even though I’d sent him for a boy!’

  Suddenly, from above them, came the sound of banging on the floor.

  ‘It’s just our Rose,’ said Bridie. ‘I’ll go up and check on her. She probably wants a cup of tea. Sheila, put the kettle on again, would ye?’

  ‘Rose is having a baby soon,’ explained Sheila. ‘She’s not been very well, so the doctor says she’s to stay in bed until the baby comes.’

  From upstairs came the sound of raised voices and sudden movement. Martha recognised the sound of distress and, had she not been in a stranger’s house, she would already have been climbing the stairs.

  ‘Sheila, I think there’s something wrong. Maybe you should go and see if Bridie needs help.’

  Sheila replaced the unfilled kettle on the stove and, at the unmistakeable sound of a scream, she raced to the stairs, but Bridie had returned and was blocking the way. Sheila backed into the room and Bridie followed, her outstretched hands covered in blood, her face drained of colour.

  ‘Go quickly, child, to the doctor’s and tell him Rose is bleeding and he’s to come right away,’ she shouted.

  When Sheila had left, Bridie turned again to climb the stairs.

  ‘Bridie, would you like me to come with you?’

  It was as though she had forgotten Martha was there and it took a moment for her to respond. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said simply.

  Within ten minutes the doctor was at Rose’s bedside and, within twenty, the child, a girl, had been born. She died within the hour.

  Martha opened her eyes and squinted at the bright square of light on the earth floor next to the bed. For a moment she frowned, then rolled over on to her back and followed the shaft of light to the small window set in the whitewashed wall. Next to her, Sheila slept on, dead to the world, and Martha was thankful to see her sleeping soundly at last.

  Hard to believe it was less than a week since she’d left Belfast looking for her daughter only to find her safe, then within the hour to watch another woman grieve over a lost child? Things had moved fast after that. Sheila had been sent to the slaughterhouse to fetch Rose’s husband, while she and Bridie bathed and dressed both mother and baby.

  The wake for the child was like nothing Martha had experienced. The tiny open coffin lay in the parlour while the family kept vigil and friends and neighbours called to pray and pay their respects. The phrase ‘Sorry for your trouble’ repeated over and over was strangely comforting in its simplicity. Martha and Sheila made themselves useful in the kitchen, baking batches of scones and making tea for the visitors. Then the previous evening the two of them had sat alone with the baby while the family ate together. In the quiet room, heavy with the scent of stock flowers placed in vases on either side of the coffin, Sheila had wept softly and held Martha’s hand, speaking only once to say, ‘I wish we could have had Daddy at home and stayed with him a while.’

  There had been concerns about Rose being fit enough to attend the funeral; it was clear that, mentally, it would be an ordeal, but the doctor then ruled that she was too weak physically and must not leave the house. The family faced the dilemma of who would stay at home with her and in the end it was Rose’s wish that all the family should go to the funeral and that Sheila would stay behind to keep her company.

  Martha left the little cottage, crossed the yard and lifted the latch on the kitchen door, intending to get the fire going and start breakfast for the family. In the half-light she saw Bridie kneeling by the hearth in prayer and, without speaking, she knelt beside her. After a while Bridie made the sign of the cross and, leaning heavily on the chair, stood up.

  ‘Well, Martha, this’ll be a hard day to come out the other side of.’

  ‘Indeed it will, Bridie.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, you know. Sometimes God sends a stranger for a reason. I knew one was comin’, but I never imagined why.’

  Martha waited for Bridie to explain, but she said no more. Instead she left the room and slowly climbed the creaking stairs.

  Just before eleven the family left by the front door of the butchers – the child’s father led the way, carrying the coffin with its tiny lily of the valley wreath. Passers-by on the main street stopped and bowed their heads. Martha walked some distance behind the small procession, conscious of not being closely connected to the family and a little embarrassed that she wasn’t wearing black. Inside the church she continued to keep her distance by sitting just inside the door. She had lived half a century and in all that time had never attended a Catholic Mass. Slowly her eyes adjusted to the dim interior and she was aware of a pungent smell wafting from the altar where the priest stood resplendent in his vestments. The stained glass windows were dramatic in their intensity of colour and images – but it was the gilded plaster Madonna that drew her eye, smiling reassuringly only a few steps away from the cross bearing her own lost child.

  Martha sensed movement just behind her and was startled to see Sheila peer round the door and raise a finger to her lips. She crept in leading a figure in black by the hand, her face covered by a mantilla. Rose. Together the two of them slipped into the last pew.

  Chapter 12

  ‘What’s for tea?’ asked Peggy as soon as she came through the door.

  ‘They’re small and fishy and they’re on toast,’ said Pat.

  ‘Not bloody sprats again!’

  Pat put the plate in front of her. ‘We’ve to be out of here in half an hour. Goldstein wants us backstage at the Institute and in make-up an hour before curtain up.’

  ‘I can’t go,’ said Peggy without looking up.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I can’t go.’

  ‘What? I can’t believe you, Peggy Goulding!’ Pat’s voice was incredulous. ‘Why can’t you go?’

  ‘I have to be somewhere else,’ said Peggy matter-of-factly and carried on eating.

  ‘Somewhere else! Where might that be?’

  ‘I’m playing at the Plaza tonight,’ she looked Pat in the eye and added, ‘the piano, in the band.’

  ‘You can’t do that! We’re booked to do this concert with the Barnstormers. You can’t come along two hours before curtain up and say you’re not taking part. We’re on the bill, the Golden Sisters, three girls and a piano. Not two sisters and the third one with the piano down the road at the Plaza!’

  At the sound of raised voices Irene ran downstairs and arrived in the kitchen to find Peggy sitting at the table, eating and Pat on her feet, red in the face and shouting loudly.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Irene.

  ‘Ask her!’

  ‘What’s happened, Peggy?’

  ‘I can’t be at the concert because I have to be at the Plaza tonight; the pianist has left and the manager wants me to play in the band.’

  ‘Just tell him you can’t do it, that you’ve got a prior engagement. He can’t make you do it.’

  Peggy thought about how angry Devlin had been when she’d told him just that. He had been waiting for her when she left work, stepping out from a doorway to block her path. He needed a pianist or there would be no music for dancing at the Plaza. His tone was soft and he’d stroked her arm. She’d told him she couldn’t do it. He had sworn and threatened her.

  ‘Yes he can. I’ll get the sack if I don’t.’

  ‘So what?’ said Irene.

  ‘He’s going to pay me ten shillings. Have you forgotten we need the money, now that you’ve no work,’ snapped Peggy.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ shouted Irene. ‘It’s not my fault the factory was bombed!’

  Pat, having regained some of her composure, spoke up. ‘Have you considered the fact that Mr Goldstein might well sack you for letting everyone down? You’d lose a full-time job and all the money that brings in.’

  ‘Mr Goldste
in won’t know,’ said Peggy.

  ‘I think he’ll notice you’re missing tonight.’

  ‘Not if you tell him I’m sick.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking. I’m not lying for you!’

  ‘Then, if I get sacked, it’ll be your fault.’

  Pat gasped. ‘I cannot believe what you’re saying,’ and she turned to Irene for support. ‘Will you tell her this is ridiculous?’

  ‘I’ll do it. I’ll tell him you’re not well,’ said Irene.

  ‘You can’t!’ shouted Pat.

  ‘I have to. We can’t afford to lose any money.’

  ‘Well, I’m having nothing to do with this deceit. It’s a disgrace you are, Peggy Goulding, and make no bones about it either of you, I’ll be sure to tell Mammy when she gets home!’

  ‘You might have to wait a while,’ said Peggy. ‘She rang the shop today to tell me she’s going to stay in Dungannon for a while longer.’

  Goldstein was standing in the entrance hall of the Institute discussing the arrangements for ticket-selling with Horowitz, his assistant director, when Pat and Irene arrived.

  ‘Good evening, girls’, he greeted them. ‘In fine voice I hope?’ It was a moment before he realised that there were only the two of them. ‘Where is Peggy?’ he asked. ‘I need to talk to her about an act that needs an accompanist.’

  Pat walked quickly past muttering something about needing to talk to William, leaving Irene to answer the question. ‘Er … Peggy’s not with us, Mr Goldstein.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s not coming, I’m afraid. She’s sick.’

  ‘Sick?’ He looked more puzzled than alarmed, ‘But she was fine when she left the shop.’

  ‘She was sick on the bus home, nearly passed out, and sick again when she was getting ready.’

  ‘So she’s not coming?’

  ‘She couldn’t, she’s so ill.’ Irene felt the need to develop the story. ‘She was sure she’d be sick on the stage and ruin the whole show. She’s gone to bed.’

  Goldstein threw up his hands. ‘No Golden Sisters, but you are one of my best acts! You raise the whole show.’ He paced to the door and back again. ‘Right, Esther and Reuben will have to go on. It’s probably too soon for them, but never mind, they’ll have to do it.’ He turned to Horowitz, ‘Can you accompany a few acts instead of Peggy?’

  ‘I can, but what about front of house?’

  ‘That will become Irene’s responsibility.’ He glared at her. ‘Seeing as she is not singing.’

  ‘But I’ve never–’ Irene protested.

  ‘It’s not difficult,’ said Goldstein. ‘Just put on a welcoming smile and sell the tickets.’

  Pat found William warming up his voice backstage. He looked so handsome in his dinner jacket, white shirt with black bow tie and his smile, just for her as she came into the room, made her heart leap.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said and took her hand. ‘I’m going to Dublin, to speak to the government to ask them for more help. I’m leaving on Thursday and coming back on Saturday.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Pat. ‘Maybe you can persuade them to–’

  He put his finger on her lips. ‘Sssh,’ he said. ‘That’s not all – you’re to come with me.’

  ‘What? I can’t go to Dublin.’

  ‘But you have to,’ he laughed. ‘You’re my personal clerk, remember?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly … I wouldn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Of course you would. You’ll do everything you do now: get me organised, take notes, save me from despair.’

  ‘Oh William, you’re really going to ask the Irish government to help us?’

  ‘Sure didn’t they send us fire tenders – twice? But keep all this under your hat. Nobody must know we’re there. And best of all,’ he kissed her cheek, ‘we’ll be able to spend some time together.’

  In the entrance hall, Irene sat behind the table to check the tickets and the float before unlocking the door. She thought of everyone backstage surrounded by the excitement and tension before a show begins. She and her sisters had rehearsed every night at home, polishing their harmonies and routines, and all for nothing. She had wanted to sing so much. It was a relief from her miserable life with no work or company. At times she felt like she’d slipped into one of those bomb craters and had no energy to climb out and, worst of all, no one knew she was there. The sound of the entrance door rattling startled her.

  ‘We’re not ready to open yet,’ she shouted. ‘It’ll be another ten minutes.’

  ‘Irene, is that you?’

  She gasped, ‘Sandy?’

  ‘Yes, let me in!’

  Her hands were shaking as she undid the bolts and the heavy door swung open. He stood in the shaft of light that spilled from the open doorway and her heart melted at the sight of him in his RAF greatcoat. They stood looking at each other, not knowing what to say.

  A shout from the street made them jump. ‘Hey, what about the blackout – shut that bloody door!’

  Inside, Irene said softly, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Do I not even get a kiss from my wife?’ His handsome face looked so sad.

  She smiled shyly and kissed him on the cheek. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Husbands have ways of knowing these things. They have to, when their letters aren’t answered.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say to you.’

  ‘Oh come on, Irene, you can do better than that. Since when have you been lost for words?’

  ‘I haven’t been feeling right, can’t seem to concentrate on anything, and then you wanted me to come to Ballyhalbert and I … Oh I don’t know …’

  ‘You didn’t want to come and see me?’ There was hurt in his voice.

  ‘I thought you’d make me stay there.’

  Sandy shook his head. ‘You don’t know me at all, do you?’

  Irene bowed her head and struggled to hold back her tears. Sandy moved closer and lifted her chin. ‘I’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do.’

  ‘But you said you’d found a house for us.’

  ‘I have, and I thought that you’d want to come and see it, but there wasn’t a word from you, not even after the bombing. You didn’t even let me know you were safe. Didn’t you realise I’d be going out of my mind? Thank God, your mother wrote and told me you were all fine.’

  ‘My mother wrote to you!’

  ‘Yes, and she told me you’d be here tonight. I was due a weekend pass, thought I’d surprise you.’

  The entrance door swung open and a group of elderly women came in together chatting away.

  Irene passed Sandy a pile of tickets. ‘Two shillings each, tuppence for a programme, they can sit where they like.’

  Goldstein stood in the wings, ready to give the signal to strike up the music and begin the show. The hall was just over half full, but it was enough to justify his decision to bring concerts back to the city so soon after the bombing. He raised his hand and the music began, the curtains opened and there were the Templemore Tappers in dramatic black and red costumes in a straight line, hands linked behind their backs, smiling broadly. Right on cue they began their routine with high kicks that drew gasps from the audience. At the back of the hall Irene and Sandy had slipped in to watch the show. She was glad she had suggested to Goldstein that Macy should work with the Tappers and help to direct their routines. It was clear she’d had an effect on them. Some of their old spark had returned and once again there had been talk of doing it for Myrtle.

  The Tappers were followed by a crooner, new to the company.Pat had dismissed him during rehearsals as having a voice best suited to a public bar, but the audience enjoyed his choice of popular songs and even joined in with the chorus of ‘We’ll Meet Again’.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a change from our programme,’ said Goldstein, coming onstage. Unfortunately, one of the Golden Sisters is unwell and we wish her a speedy recovery. In her p
lace I’m delighted to introduce two young people, gifted musicians from Poland, who are performing together for the first time this evening. Please give a warm Belfast welcome to Esther and Reuben!’

  Esther was dressed in a navy A-line skirt, a white blouse with broderie anglaise collar and cuffs and navy court shoes. Her hair was plaited and curled into coils on either side of her head. Reuben followed her on to the stage. He wore a suit, much too small for him, made of coarse black material, his dark hair touched his collar and long ringlets fell in front of his ears. They avoided looking at the audience and instead turned towards each other and placed their bows on their instruments. A hush fell over the audience as they waited to hear what sound this exotic young couple would produce. Reuben counted them in and the opening notes of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons soared towards the arched ceiling. The audience were entranced, but Esther and Reuben were oblivious to everything but the music and each other. When the piece came to an end, the clapping startled them and they quickly bowed and left the stage with the same serious expression they had worn throughout the performance.

  Macy was up next. Pat was already in the wings, watching her dance routine, when she felt a finger gently trace the scooped neckline of her gown across her back.

  ‘I love to see you in this dress,’ William whispered, ‘it reminds me of our first concert.’

  Pat adored the dress too, the feel of silk against her skin, the touch of coral beading across the bodice and, above all, the way it made her feel like a real opera singer.

  A few minutes later, it was their turn to perform. They stood at the front of the stage, heads held high, while Horowitz played the introduction to ‘Viene la Sera’, the duet from Madame Butterfly. William sang of his love in a voice so rich and charged with emotion that Pat believed absolutely every word. When she replied it was with every fibre of her being; he was by her side and her voice soared with the joy of it all. They came together, he held her hands, looked into her eyes and their voices blended in a declaration of passion, building an intensity they could never have expressed with mere words. The final notes soared out over the audience. There was silence, then applause erupted and Pat sank in a curtsey while William bowed. Together they left the stage and in the wings William crushed her in his arms and kissed her with all the excitement and drama of their performance.