She felt the woman grip her arm and propel her into a small office where a tall man was standing with his back to the door. He turned. ‘We meet again, Miss Goulding, but under dreadful circumstances.’ It was the clerk from the Department of Defence.
‘You?’ Pat’s brain reeled with questions. ‘What’s going on? Where’s William?’
‘I’m afraid, Miss Goulding, that Mr Kennedy died fifteen minutes ago as a result of injuries he sustained in a bomb blast in the North Strand area.’
The woman steadied Pat as she staggered backwards and helped her into a chair. If there were words to respond to the shock and panic Pat felt in the first seconds of grief she could not utter them. The only sound to escape her lips was a terrible strangled scream that came from her very core.
Pat remembered nothing of her journey across Dublin, nothing of the cold marble interior of the government building to which they took her. Weeks later she would recall the breakfast of egg, bacon and soda bread that they set in front of her and how she watched the fat slowly congealing until they removed it, untouched. She knew the woman had been with her for hours, but all she could think about was the emptiness within her now that William was gone. The morning wore on and she began to long for her mother. To be with Mammy wouldn’t take away the pain, but to be circled by her arms and hear her say, ‘Sssh now, Pat, sure I’m here, amn’t I?’ might bring some comfort.
The woman brought tea and sat next to her. It was then that Pat noticed that she had removed her coat to reveal an eau de nil silk dress. ‘Would you like me to explain to you how William died?’
Pat nodded.
‘He had been with an ARP patrol when a bomb fell near their post; a house was demolished. He organised the wardens and showed them how to clear the debris quickly. Several people were pulled out alive. He left them shortly after and we assume that he was on his way back to the hotel when he was caught in another explosion.’
Pat’s head seemed to clear as she listened to the details of William’s last hours and, turning to the woman, she said, ‘Of course you know all this – where he was and what he did. You were following us all day – Bewley’s café, Phoenix Park,’ Pat’s voice was devoid of emotion. ‘You and the clerk. Only he isn’t a clerk, is he? Who ever heard of a clerk with a notebook and fountain pen who never made a single note?’
The woman leaned in close and lowered her voice. ‘These are dangerous times. Your country is at war and we felt the need to protect Mr Kennedy while he was here negotiating with our government. That’s why we were following him, that’s how we know what happened to him.’
‘But you didn’t protect him, did you?’
‘We did all we could.’
‘So what were you supposed to be protecting him from?’
The woman looked away.
Pat’s thoughts raced on. ‘You weren’t looking after William, you aren’t looking after me – this is about the agreement, not us! There’s been something strange about all this from the start. It was more than shelters and searchlights wasn’t it?’ She stood up, suddenly aware of her surroundings. ‘What is this place? Why are you keeping me here?’
‘Please sit down,’ the woman’s voice was soothing, but Pat was in no mood to be placated.
‘I want to see William,’ she demanded and paced the room as her thoughts raced on. ‘And I’ll need to tell his sister and the people back in Stormont.’
‘It’s all been taken care of. Please calm yourself.’
‘I am calm,’ Pat shouted, ‘and I’m going to see William!’ But before she reached the door it was opened and the man who was supposed to be a clerk stood in the doorway.
‘You can’t leave yet, Miss Goulding,’ he said. ‘With Mr Kennedy’s death you are now the only representative of the Northern Ireland government in Dublin who is aware of the negotiations that have taken place over the past two days. The papers outlining the draft agreement reached between Mr Kennedy and our minister of defence are being drawn up. It’s your duty now to take them back to Stormont.’
Pat opened her mouth to protest, but William’s words came back to her. ‘We could change the course of the war.’
The woman took her arm and said gently, ‘Come and sit down. It won’t be long until the papers are here and we’ll drive you home to Belfast.’
Pat leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes and let the despair take her. William had succeeded in negotiating something that would bring relief to Belfast and something more, but they had paid a heavy price; he was dead and she would never see him again. For a few hours the previous night she had loved and been loved in return and a future that she had only been able to dream of had lain before her. Now there was nothing but an ache that she hoped would kill her too. Time crept on and, outside, the fair morning turned grey. Soon rain was beating on the window. Towards noon the clerk returned.
‘It’s time to go,’ he said and led her outside to the car. They crossed the river, rounded the Custom House and minutes later the car pulled up outside Amiens Street station. He handed her a ticket. ‘A single to Belfast. I’ll walk you to the train; it leaves in ten minutes.’
‘But you said I would be driven to Belfast to deliver the agreement.’
‘What agreement?’
‘The one negotiated between William and the Minister of Defence; you said I was to take it to Belfast.’
‘I think you’ve misunderstood, Miss Goulding. Mr Kennedy was in Dublin to discuss improving food supplies to the north, but nothing was decided.’
‘But you said this morning that–’
‘I think perhaps the terrible ordeal you’ve been through might have, shall we say, clouded your judgement.’
He got out of the car and took her suitcase from the boot. ‘All your belongings from the hotel,’ he explained then took her elbow and led her to the train.
On the platform Pat said defiantly, ‘I know exactly what you said earlier this morning and I know important things were agreed.’
He thrust the suitcase into her hand. ‘You know nothing, Miss Goulding. Now go home.’
In Belfast, dark clouds obscured the Cave Hill and rain was beating off the streets, soaking through Pat’s coat as she walked from the station to the Carr’s Glen trolley bus. It was as though some primitive instinct willed her to put one foot in front of the other. Her mind was numb, save for thoughts of her own home and bed. From that moment on, she would never be able to recall any moment of the traumatic journey from Dublin to Belfast.
Round the back of the house she came and found the key where it always was; under the scrubbing brush. The house was cold – the range was out – and it didn’t smell right. She called out ‘Anybody home?’ but there was only the ticking of the clock high on the mantelpiece. She made her way slowly up the stairs, got out of her wet clothes and into a clean soft nightdress from the drawer, and crawled under the eiderdown. Sleep was slow in coming, images of William and her together rushed one after the other, ripping her sanity: the hotel room, the café, Nelson’s Pillar, the restaurant where he had proposed. Suddenly, she was out of bed and reaching for her suitcase, emptying the contents over the floor. Searching. Searching. It was lost or stolen. How could she have been so careless as to have left it behind! Then she remembered the pocket in the lid of her case – there was something small and hard and square. The green satin box, and inside … She held William’s ring up to the light, turned it full circle and saw for the first time the surprise he had left her. Inside the band was engraved a message to Susanna from her Figaro. ‘La voce che adoro’ – ‘The voice I love’.
Chapter 15
Irene stood at the bus stop in Ballyhalbert and watched the single-decker bus disappear into the distance. It was Saturday afternoon and there wasn’t a soul in sight. She’d left home determined to be positive. He’s your husband and it’s right that you should be with him, she told herself, but as each mile had passed the doubts had grown. She set the little suitcase she’d borrowed from Betty Harper
on the ground and leaned against the bus stop. Well, at least if she didn’t like it, she knew where to catch the bus back to Belfast.
There was the sound of a horn and she turned to see a military lorry coming towards her. As it drew nearer, she saw Sandy leaning out of the passenger window waving at her. The door was open before the lorry had stopped and he jumped out and ran towards her lifting her off her feet and swinging her round. His excitement at seeing her was all she needed to chase away her feelings of apprehension and when he set her back on the ground she lifted her face to be kissed.
‘The base isn’t far,’ he told her as he helped her up into the lorry. ‘You remember Tommy, don’t you?’
‘How could I forget him? He was with you when we met in Stranraer.’
‘And we danced at the Aldergrove concert,’ Tommy reminded her.
Irene laughed. ‘You’re the best Lindy Hopper I know, Tommy!’
‘I’ve got the rest of the day off in honour of you coming,’ said Sandy. ‘So we’ll go to the NAAFI for something to eat and then I’ll take you to see our house.’
Our house … that sounded so good. ‘I can’t wait,’ she laughed.
The Ballyhalbert base was not much more than a concrete strip of runway with half a dozen Nissen huts and a control tower. It had been hastily constructed, but the squadron of night-flying Defiants lined up on the runway was impressive.
They drove straight to the NAAFI, housed in one of the Nissen huts, where it seemed everyone on the base, including the three other wives, had gathered to welcome her. The lunch of mince and potatoes, followed by rice pudding, was just what she needed after two hours on a bus with poor suspension, and the lively conversation was enough to make her think that maybe she might enjoy Ballyhalbert after all.
The house was a little over a mile from the base, a pleasant walk now that the rain had moved northwards. Patches of blue sky hung in the sky like washing on a line. The lane was little more than a dirt track bordered by hawthorn in full bloom.
‘Cast not a clout ’til May is out,’ said Irene.
‘What nonsense is that?’ Sandy teased her.
‘Last day of May today and the May flowers are everywhere – time to swap winter clothes for summer dresses.’
‘Maybe I’ll give that tradition a miss,’ he said.
They rounded a bend and the land fell away. Brown and cream cows grazed in a lush green field to their left and a collection of roofs could be seen in the fold of the land below. They paused a moment to take in the patchwork of green that stretched as far as the eye could see. A cow appeared over the hedge lowing softly and high above them a circling curlew called.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Irene.
‘It needs to be,’ said Sandy, ‘you haven’t seen the house yet!’
Too small to be considered a hamlet, the row of three cottages, the farmhouse and barn were simply known as Road End, but ‘back of beyond’ might have been a better description. The end cottage, like its neighbours, was whitewashed and thatched and the door at the front was flanked by a two small windows. Sandy pushed the door open, swept Irene up in his arms and carried her over the threshold. He kissed her and set her down. ‘Well, what do you think of the wee house?’
Irene inspected everything: the open fire place with a box bed to one side; the solid wooden table and dresser with its mismatched crockery; the ancient sofa covered with a crocheted blanket; and two bright rag rugs. Everything was clean and cared for.
‘Will it do?’ Sandy’s voice was anxious.
Irene stood between two shafts of sunlight that shone through the windows and lit up the little room and grinned. ‘It will.’
‘Hello, anybody there?’ A woman’s face appeared at the window and seconds later she was at the door. ‘You must be Irene. Welcome, welcome!’ She was a small stout woman with grey hair and her smile was full and well meant.
‘This is Mrs McCoubrey,’ said Sandy. ‘She’s renting us the cottage.’
‘Now, now, what did I tell you? Call me Jeanie.’ She put a string bag on the table. ‘Brought you a few wee things to be going on with: potato bread, milk, butter, eggs, bacon.’
‘That’s really kind of you,’ said Irene.
‘Not at all, not at all, sure we’re neighbours now, aren’t we? Now I’ll leave the two of you to get settled and, if you need anything at all, just ask.’
‘There’s enough here for a feast,’ said Sandy, unpacking Jeanie’s bag. ‘I’ll fetch some water from the pump and see if I can get a fire going.’
‘There’s no hurry. After the big dinner we had, I’m in no rush to eat,’ said Irene. ‘Let’s just sit for a while and you can tell me all about Ballyhalbert.’
Saturday night in the NAAFI was a noisy and raucous affair. The beer and cigarettes were cheap and the craic was good. Tommy owned a gramophone and half a dozen records so there was quite a bit of dancing. With the arrival of Irene there were now four women on the base, but they were still heavily outnumbered by the men and, by nine o’clock, Irene must have danced with at least half the airmen. She had just danced the Lindy Hop with Tommy for the third time, when she slumped into her chair next to Sandy.
‘I can’t dance another step. I’m exhausted.’
‘Maybe it’s time for something less energetic,’ said Sandy.
He took a harmonica from his pocket and played the opening to ‘Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye’. Another airman with a harmonica joined him, playing the harmony, and soon everyone was singing along. Between them, Sandy and his pal had quite a wide repertoire of popular songs and when one or two people were confident enough to sing solo, their efforts were rewarded with loud clapping and cheering.
‘What about you, Irene?’ shouted Tommy. ‘Will you not give us a song? One of those you sang at the concert.’
Irene blushed and shook her head, ‘No I couldn’t.’
‘Of course you can.’ Tommy took her hand and pulled her out of her seat.
‘I’m used to singing with my sisters; I’m not that good without them.’
‘Come on – you can do it,’ Tommy insisted.
Irene looked at Sandy. He nodded and smiled his encouragement. ‘I could sing “Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major”,’ she said. ‘That’s one I usually sing on my own.’
The opening bars were played and Irene came in on cue. This wasn’t a performance for a concert hall, but a sing-song with friends and Irene was modest enough to leave out the bits of theatricality – like marching up and down between verses – that she and her sisters would have included in their act, though she did encourage everyone to join in the chorus. She held the final note like a professional and bowed quickly at the loud clapping and cheering before returning to her seat, still blushing.
Chapter 16
There were just a few neighbours up and about in Joanmount Gardens when an impressive black car with highly polished chrome headlamps and bumpers pulled up outside the Goulding house. Those who saw the driver emerge, dressed formally in a dark overcoat and bowler hat, might have wondered why a solicitor, or possibly an accountant, might be calling on the Gouldings on a Sunday morning. Peggy answered the door in her dressing gown with a piece of toast in her hand and, on seeing the middle-aged man on the doorstep, her first chilling thought was that he might be an undertaker.
‘Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for Miss Goulding.’
‘Which one?’
‘Oh, ah … Patricia.’
‘I think she might be upstairs.’ Peggy didn’t explain that she hadn’t seen her sister for three days and that when she had got home the previous night from the Plaza it was only the sight of her sister’s coat over the bannister that alerted her to the fact that Pat had come home. ‘Why don’t you go into the sitting room and I’ll find her.’
Upstairs Peggy quickly shook Pat awake. ‘Get up, get up,’ she hissed. ‘There’s a very important-looking man downstairs. In a bowler hat no less!’
Pat rolle
d over and sat up.
‘Oh my God!’ Peggy gasped, seeing Pat’s puffy face. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I don’t want to talk to you, go away.’ Pat turned towards the wall and pulled the eiderdown over her head.
‘Your eyes are all swollen. You’ve been crying, haven’t you?’
‘Just go away, will you!’
‘I could do that, but that strange-looking old fellow downstairs isn’t going anywhere until he’s spoken to you.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Looks like an undertaker if you ask me.’
Pat jumped up. ‘What?’
‘Bowler hat, little moustache, shoes you can see your face in.’
‘Tell him I’ll be down in five minutes. Give him a cup of tea or something.’
Sir John Andrews didn’t often get to meet ordinary Belfast people in their own homes. He had toured a significant number of slums, pledging to build new houses when he was running for office, but this house was not like those. Maybe Miss Goulding was a different sort of working class. He noted the clean, neat room. The furniture was a little threadbare, but a Monet print on the wall and the sheet music for a Schubert song on the piano suggested at least some refinement.
‘She’ll be down in a few minutes,’ said Peggy. ‘Sit down if you like. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘No, please don’t bother. I just need to speak to Patricia in private.’
‘Ah, right,’ said Peggy, worried now about what this man wanted with Pat. ‘I’ll just be upstairs.’ Sitting on the top step listening out for any sign of trouble more like, she thought.
Sir John stood up as Pat entered and offered her his hand. ‘Are you Patricia Goulding, a clerk at the Ministry of Public Security?’ Pat nodded and he went on, ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, you’re Sir John Andrews. We’ve met before.’
‘Have we?’ He looked surprised.
‘I sang in the choir at the Stormont carol concert last Christmas. My aunt, Kathleen Goulding, introduced us.’
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