‘Well, George Formby is here to entertain the troops; he offers his services for free and the camps are happy to host the concerts.’
‘But what if there could be a show in a big theatre like the Empire. That would be something special, wouldn’t it?’
‘You mean charge people to see the show? I doubt he would agree to that.’
‘No, but the money raised at our concerts always goes to charities like the Red Cross. A lot of performers donate the money from ticket sales. Could we ask him? It would be so exciting for everyone to perform in a big theatre.’
Goldstein could see the appeal, but he wasn’t sure whether George Formby would agree to it, or if he could persuade a theatre like the Empire to give them a night in the middle of the pantomime season. ‘I will think about it,’ he said. ‘Now let us discuss what needs to be done this weekend – we have less than four weeks of rehearsals before the first show.’
Martha awoke on the first Sunday in December to a milky sky and a glittering frost. There was ice on the inside of her bedroom window and her slippers and dressing gown were cold to the touch. In the kitchen the cinders in the range were still glowing and she carefully placed some firewood against them so that, by the time the girls got up, the room would be warm and they could all have a hot breakfast before church. The girls were going to rehearsals straight after and they probably wouldn’t be back until evening.
She had agreed to Sheila taking part in weekend concerts, but only if Pat was with her at all times. She had to admit that the prospect of these concerts had raised their spirits. Peggy, especially, was full of beans. Although she never mentioned it, Peggy had been upset about that business at the Plaza, but now she had an important role to play in this new show. Added to that, Harry Ferguson showing up out of the blue meant that she was being pleasant to everyone. If only something would come Pat’s way. She had been through hell but, credit to her, she went to every rehearsal to keep an eye on Sheila. How hard that must be for her – to be there and not be able to sing. Martha was grateful to her.
Towards evening, Martha settled down to crochet a little Peter Pan collar to brighten up Sheila’s plain blue jumper. At seven o’clock she switched on the wireless just in time to hear the chimes of Big Ben introduce the news.
‘It has been reported in the United States of America that an American naval base at Pearl Harbour in the state of Hawaii has today been the target of an air attack by the Japanese air force. There are, as yet, no confirmed reports of damage or casualties.’
Martha was puzzled by the announcement. It was clearly significant – why else would it be the first thing on the news, but what had Japan to do with the war and why bomb the United States when they were not at war with anyone? There would probably be more details in the main nine o’clock news, she thought, and she went back to her crocheting still wondering where exactly Hawaii was.
The girls came through the back door, laughing about the antics of the Templemore Tappers and their attempt at a cancan.
‘You should have seen them, Mammy. The music got faster and faster and when they were kicking their legs up, somebody’s shoe flew off and hit Mr Goldstein on the head!’ Sheila convulsed with laughter and could say no more.
Peggy took up the tale. ‘They all started laughing and, of course, they couldn’t keep time and in the end they were just running round the stage making right eejits of themselves. It was a geg!’
‘I’m sure you’ve that man’s head away,’ said Martha. ‘I don’t know how he keeps up with you all. Now, there are some farls there that you can toast with a wee bit of cheese on top. I’m just waiting for the news; there’s been an attack at an American air base.’
At the ominous sound of Big Ben they fell silent, the fun of the Tappers forgotten, and listened to the report of the terrible strike on Pearl Harbour that had killed thousands. Their hearts went out to the people there – they understood completely what they were going through. Pat fetched her old school atlas and they stared at the tiny green spot of Hawaii in the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean.
‘How could that happen?’ asked Sheila. ‘Why would the Japanese do that? The Americans aren’t even in the war.’
‘Ach, their blood’s up,’ said Martha. ‘There’s no telling what some of these countries will do – they’re like drunks when they see a scrap on a Saturday night and wade in fists flailing.’
‘Well, they’ve picked a fight they can’t win,’ said Pat. ‘How long, I wonder, before the Americans throw the next punch?’
Listening to the wireless the following day, Martha heard the President of the United States say that the bombing of Pearl Harbour was ‘a date which will live in infamy’ and he declared war on Japan. Three days later Germany and Italy declared war on the United States and within hours this was reciprocated.
On the Thursday before Christmas Pat was in a meeting all afternoon, finalising transport arrangements for evacuees who wanted to return to their families. The room was stuffy and she felt the beginnings of a headache drumming in her temple. She left her desk in time to catch the early bus, but as she was passing the Great Hall she paused to look at decorations for the Stormont carol concert that evening. Boughs of holly hung from the banisters of the wide staircase, and the landing at the top was dominated by a huge Christmas tree, resplendent with red velvet bows and gold baubles. Rows of elegant gilded chairs had been set out in neat rows.
She should not have come this way. What was she thinking of? Tonight the choir would be singing here, but William would be missing from the tenors and she from the sopranos. Pat felt tears sting her eyes and turned away. As she reached the main door, it opened and a crocodile of children marched in – a raggle-taggle bunch, all chattering and laughing, swivelling and pointing.
From outside there was a sudden shout – ‘Stand still children! Remember, best behaviour at all times!’ – and Pat watched in amazement as Aunt Kathleen swept through the door.
Without thinking, Pat called, ‘Aunt Kathleen,’ and immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘Good gracious,’ said Kathleen. ‘I didn’t expect you to be here to welcome us.’ She removed her hat and handed it to Pat, then went and stood in front of the children. ‘Remember you have come to your country’s parliament and you must show respect. And what must you not do?’
‘Run in the building,’ they chorused.
Kathleen nodded, satisfied. ‘Now, I want the third row of the choir to go and sit on the third step up on that very grand staircase. Second row, second step; first row, first step.’ When they were seated, she beckoned Pat to come forward. ‘This lady is my niece and she is also called Miss Goulding,’ she explained, ‘and we’re going to sing for her.’
Kathleen indicated to Pat to sit down and to the children to stand up. She gave them the note and counted one … two … ‘Away in a Manger’ they sang, as only a choir of children can. The sweet sound filled the hall and Pat looked from shining face to shining face and felt at once uplifted.
When they had finished, Kathleen nodded, satisfied. ‘Do it just like that tonight,’ she said, ‘now sit down and chat quietly to the person next to you.’
‘Well, what do you think, Pat?’
‘I think they sang beautifully. How do you get children like that to–’
‘Children like what?’ The look on Kathleen’s face pulled her up short.
‘I didn’t mean …’
‘Children are children, Pat. It doesn’t matter what their fathers do for a living or how many petticoats their mother has. If you give them music they will give it their hearts.’
‘I know that, I’m sorry Aunt Kathleen.’ Pat felt awkward. ‘I’m sure they’ll be wonderful tonight. Look, I have to go or I’ll miss my bus. Good luck,’ and she turned to walk away. But before she reached the door there was a sharp cry behind her and Pat turned to see Kathleen slump to the floor.
The children clustered round their teacher. ‘Get back,’ Pat shouted, but they didn’t move. She
clapped her hands. ‘Back to the steps all of you,’ and they reluctantly moved away. ‘Aunt Kathleen, are you all right? Can you hear me?’ There was a low groan. Pat scanned the rows of children. ‘You there, the big boy at the back. Yes, you. Go down that corridor, there’s a man on the desk. Tell him to come here quickly.’
Kathleen’s eyes flickered open and she tried to sit up. Her face was plaster white.
‘No, stay where you are for now, I’ve sent for help.’ Pat took off her coat, rolled it up and put it under Kathleen’s head.
‘I need to sort the children.’
‘They’re fine, be still.’
The man arrived and together he and Pat helped Kathleen to her feet, but her legs went from under her again and they sat her gently on a chair.
‘I think I’m going to faint again.’ There was a grey sheen to her face.
‘Put your head between your knees,’ Pat told her.
‘There’s a nurse in the building, I’ve sent for her,’ said the man.
Kathleen lifted her head. ‘Don’t fuss, I’ll be all right in a minute. I have to be. I’m responsible for these children and they have to perform tonight.’
‘Aunt Kathleen, do you think you’re well enough for a concert? What if you faint again when you’re up there conducting?’
‘The children have been practising for weeks. I won’t let them down!’ She stood up, swayed and sank again to the chair.
‘Can we get them back to the school?’ Pat asked.
‘No, they are to have their tea here with the other performers. Their parents are coming to collect them later.’
The nurse arrived and after a quick examination decided Kathleen should go to hospital.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Pat.
‘No, stay with the children,’ Kathleen doubled over and let out a low moan. ‘Can you take them out of here?’ she whispered.
The man from the desk nodded towards the corridor. ‘Committee room number four, they’re setting up the tea things now.’
‘But I don’t want to leave you, Aunt Kathleen.’
‘Pat, you’re in charge of the children now.’
‘But I can’t–’
‘You can’t let me down.’ There were tears in Kathleen’s eyes.
Pat nodded, embraced her aunt briefly, then crossed to the stairs where the children were sitting, quiet as mice, watching the goings-on.
‘Miss Goulding is unwell,’ said Pat, sounding more confident than she felt, ‘so I’m going to take you now to the room where you’ll have some tea and I’ll stay with you until your parents come to collect you.’
‘What about our singing?’ asked the older boy who had helped earlier.
‘I don’t think there’ll be any singing tonight,’ said Pat and with a last look at Kathleen she led the children down the corridor to the committee room.
There was no one there when they arrived, but the door was open and inside the large committee table was covered with a white tablecloth on which were set platters of sandwiches and slices of Madeira cake. At one end stood a trolley with a tea urn and cups and saucers. For a fleeting moment she thought the children might rush at the food and she wouldn’t be able to control them, but they almost crept into the room, one or two talking in whispers, the rest silent.
‘Sit on the chairs for now,’ said Pat. ‘The other performers will be here soon and then we’ll all have something to eat.’
They sat in silence, looking around them, taking in the grand room with the huge fireplace, the twin chandeliers, the portraits on the walls. The large ormolu clock on the mantelpiece measured the silence and Pat watched the children, wondering if she should say something, do something. A tiny girl with eyes as big as a marmoset’s put her hand up.
‘When are we going to sing, Miss?’
Pat saw all eyes were on her, each child waiting for the answer. They’d come here to sing. When would they be singing? Pat cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid,’ she hesitated, ‘I’m sorry you won’t be singing because Miss Goulding isn’t well.’
‘But we have to sing. Miss Goulding said it would be the chance of a lifetime and we would remember it always.’
Pat could hear the echo of Kathleen’s voice. That was exactly what she would have said to them. ‘But Miss Goulding isn’t here.’
The child replied as if Pat had not quite grasped the point, ‘But we’re here and you’re here.’
‘Yes, but Miss Goulding isn’t here,’ repeated Pat, her voice a little sharper.
‘But you’re a Miss Goulding too,’ said the child.
The logic defeated Pat and as she struggled to explain, the older boy turned on the girl. ‘Don’t be stupid – she’s a different Miss Goulding, she can’t conduct a choir!’
The girl burst into tears. ‘But I wanted to remember it always,’ she sobbed and then another child began to cry, then another. Pat realised in horror that in seconds the whole choir could be in tears.
‘Stop! Stop!’ she shouted and quicker than she thought possible they were quiet and looked at her, waiting for her to tell them what to do.
‘Put up your hand if you want to sing.’
All hands went up.
‘Put up your hand if you can sing just as Miss Goulding taught you, even though she’s not here.’
All hands went up, but the boy said, ‘As long as someone conducts us.’
Pat took a deep breath and looked again at their expectant faces. ‘I can conduct you, but you have to promise you will sing your very best and make Miss Goulding proud of you.’
At seven o’clock the children lined up quietly in the corridor outside the Great Hall. They were to perform first. Pat stood with them and smiled to encourage them. She had no idea how they would perform in front of an audience and wondered what on earth had possessed her to take Kathleen’s place. Then the door opened and Pat led the children out into the splendid setting to take their places on the stairs in front of Belfast’s most prominent citizens.
She scanned the choir and saw that they had followed the instructions to focus on her. Pat counted them in, ‘One … two …’ But nobody sang, they just stood looking at her, expectant, silent. In the first row the girl with the marmoset eyes calmly mouthed the word ‘note’. They needed their note! So well-trained were they, so disciplined, they would not begin without it. Pat was horrified. The children waited, the audience waited. Just one note from her lips was all it would take. Kathleen’s words flashed in her brain – ‘You’re in charge of the children now’ – and Pat opened her mouth and sang one note, the only one that mattered, a pitch perfect C.
Chapter 28
On Christmas Eve morning Martha cleaned the house and put clean sheets on the beds. She was in the middle of digging up vegetables for the Christmas dinner from the garden, when the postman came round to the back of the house.
‘Hello there, Mrs Goulding, I’ve a quare parcel for ye here.’
‘Lord bless us!’ said Martha. ‘What on earth is it?’
‘I’m guessing it’s livestock,’ he laughed. ‘Although by the amount of blood seepin’ out of it, it’s surely dead. I’ve a letter from Enniskillen too.’
Martha slipped the letter into her apron pocket and took the parcel inside. She put it in the sink to unwrap it. Some sort of fowl, all gutted and plucked for the oven, thank God. She spotted a bloody envelope and inside that, also bloody, was a long letter from Bridie McManus. The goose was a present from the family because, she said, ‘I know you’ll not get anything like this in Belfast.’ Martha silently thanked her friend for her kindness and turned her attention to the other letter. She had not had a letter from Irene for two weeks, not since she ’d let them know that she wouldn’t be home for Christmas. Inside there were just four words, ‘Coming home Christmas Eve.’
Martha spent the afternoon hurriedly crocheting a lace collar and matching cuffs, identical to the three sets she had already made, so Irene would have a present to open on Christmas morning. And all th
e time she smiled to herself knowing that the bleak Christmas she had dreaded had been banished by the prospect of a roast goose dinner and a daughter returned home.
When Sheila and Peggy arrived home from work they looked at each other in amazement at the sound of their mother singing.
‘You’re in a good mood,’ said Peggy.
‘And why wouldn’t I be, sure haven’t I had two lovely surprises today. You can see the first one in the sink.’
‘Is it a turkey? Where did you get it from?’
‘It’s a goose – a present from Bridie McManus.’
‘And what’s the second surprise? A plum pudding?’ laughed Sheila.
‘It’ll be here later,’ said Martha.
‘Did Bridie send a letter as well?’ asked Sheila. ‘Is Rose back serving in the shop? What about Dermot?’
‘Yes, yes, the letter’s on the mantelpiece. Now away in the sitting room, the fire’s lit. We’ll have a late tea when Pat comes home.’
‘Is she not home yet?’
‘No she’s gone straight from work to see if Aunt Kathleen is all right. She came out of hospital yesterday.’
‘What was the matter with her?’
‘She’d a fever and low blood pressure.’
The seven o’clock news had just finished and Martha was thinking about getting the tea started when Pat put her head round the sitting room door.
‘I’m home and guess who I’ve brought with me.’
Martha was on her feet in an instant, her face eager with anticipation. ‘Come on in, come on in,’ she shouted and Pat came in followed by Aunt Kathleen.
‘Hello, I’m sorry about the intrusion, but Pat insisted,’ said Kathleen.
Pat saw the split-second hesitation on her mother’s face just before good manners prevailed. ‘I’ve invited Kathleen to spend Christmas with us,’ Pat quickly explained.
Sheila looked confused until Martha flashed her a look. Then she was all smiles. ‘Aunt Kathleen, what a surprise. Did you get my letter saying I got the job?’
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