Martha's Girls (7 page)

The Templemore Tappers were announced and there were squeals of excitement and a rustling of taffeta as they tapped-tapped on to the stage where they immediately formed a straight line with their backs to the audience. Meanwhile Peggy, who had agreed to accompany any acts who needed music, had crossed to the piano and began their introduction. There was a gasp from the audience as all six dancers bent forward from the waist to reveal their frilly black knickers. Goldstein’s mouth gaped, and from the back of the room a strong Belfast accent shouted, ‘You show ‘em, girls!’

The stage was a bit too small for their ambitious routine of fast tapping with lots of joining of arms and high kicks and at times there was some discrete pushing as they jostled for space. For the finale each dancer pirouetted in turn and ended with her arms held high. Myrtle was last in line and by the time the rest had finished, she found herself with nowhere to place her trailing foot and pirouetted off the stage landing with a thud, legs in the air, giving the front row a final look at her frilly knickers. The room erupted with loud cheers and whoops and Myrtle red-faced took her own bow from the floor as the Tappers hurried in confusion from the stage. Irene was shaking with laughter, rocking back and forth, shoving Pat. ‘Did you ever see …’ but Pat had on her affronted face.

‘Irene, for goodness sake, that’s so, so …’ She struggled to find the word.

‘What Pat … common?’ Irene could barely get the words out as she wiped away the tears.

By the time Myrtle returned to her seat she had moved from embarrassment to basking in the attention. Irene patted her on the back. ‘Well, I don’t think Goldstein will forget the Templemore Tappers in a hurry!’

‘No, not if the look on his face was anything to go by.’ Myrtle laughed. ‘Mind you, I don’t think we’re quite what he’s looking for, do you?’

Horowitz jumped on stage smiling broadly. ‘Well, that’ll be a hard act to follow! Next we have Walter Burns.’

‘Ooh, he’s a handsome man.’ Irene was watching Walter fix the wooden head on his ventriloquist’s dummy.

‘I know you’d fancy anything in trousers, Irene, but I thought even you would draw the line at a lump of wood with his head on the wrong way!’ Myrtle was out to enjoy the show, now that she’d had her audition. Walter’s dummy, Wee Shouie from the shipyard, had them all laughing so much they didn’t notice that sometimes Walter brought his hand up to his mouth to cover words beginning with the letter B. There was something about Shouie that put Pat in mind of Jimmy McComb, maybe it was the ginger hair sticking out from under his greasy cap, or the blue boiler suit and even she couldn’t help but smile at his silly notions.

There followed several more acts: dancers, singers, musicians, comedians, even conjurors and an illusionist. Some good, some dreadful, some where opinion was divided, but every one keen to be included in Goldstein’s new venture. After each performance Goldstein and Horowitz conferred and made notes.

‘Ok, it’s us next,’ said Peggy. ‘Let’s show them what the Gouldings can do!’

The opening bars of ‘Cheek to Cheek’ played, Pat and Irene swayed, picking up the rhythm and their cue as though they’d been practising for weeks and not just in their half hour dinner break at the mill. In the middle of the song, where Peggy improvised several bars, Irene held out her hand to Pat and both of them danced Fred and Ginger style round the small dance floor, returning to the piano in time to sing the final verse. They finished to enthusiastic applause and Irene risked a look at Goldstein and Horowitz as she raised her head from their bow to see both of them smiling and applauding warmly.

Irene turned to Pat and Peggy as they left the stage and whispered, ‘Let’s get out of here. If we run we’ll catch the last bus.’

‘We can’t do that. I promised Mr Goldstein I’d stay to the end. Anyway there’s another singer to come.’ She indicated silver cuff-links. ‘I have to accompany him.’

‘But we’ll have to walk all the way home. Mammy’ll be raging,’ insisted Irene.

At that moment William Kennedy was announced and Pat watched him rise and move towards the stage. ‘Don’t fuss, Irene,’ she said and without taking her eyes off him, she felt for her chair and sat down.

William Kennedy exuded not arrogance, but a quiet confidence. A man used to succeeding. He had what Pat, on the long walk home, would describe as breeding. ‘Mark my words’ she would say as they crossed Carlisle Circus and headed towards the Cliftonville, ‘That fellow had good breeding written all over him. Oh, it’s difficult to describe, right enough, but unmistakable once perceived.’ And Peggy rolled her eyes, just as she had done half an hour earlier when William Kennedy Esquire had passed her his music and she read the title: ‘Nesson Dorma’ by Puccini.

For a tenor he was not large, but his voice had an unexpected resonance that filled the room. His breathing and phrasing indicated at least some training and his gestures suggested he had stage experience. Pat was enthralled. His inclusion in the company would raise the tone considerably, but would they want someone with a classical repertoire? She glanced at Goldstein who was sitting quite still with no expression on his face. Then she concentrated on the sound imagining the story of the cruel princess and her suitor with the mysterious name.

As the applause for William Kennedy died away, Goldstein climbed on to the stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what can I say? My friend, Mr Horowitz, and I have been overwhelmed by the talent we have witnessed this evening and we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.’ He then began to read out the names of the successful acts. Each name was cheered enthusiastically, none more so than the Templemore Tappers. Myrtle jumped up and down and hugged Irene, who was still waiting anxiously with her sisters to hear if they had been chosen. Eventually, when they felt sure he must have read at least a dozen acts, he said, ‘And the excellent trio the Golden Sisters.’ There was a moment’s confusion as he hesitated and corrected himself. ‘Forgive me, I mean the Goulding sisters.’ Irene whooped with joy and hugged Pat and Peggy, but Pat quickly disengaged herself and turned again to the stage, where Goldstein was waiting for the cheers to die down. ‘Last but not least,’ he said, folding up his spectacles, ‘A very talented tenor, Mr William Kennedy.’

Irene and Peggy were astonished to see Pat lean across the aisle to shake the tenor’s hand.

Chapter 6

Irene bent her head over the linen tablecloth and fastened it taut in the wooden frame. She smoothed the weave to check for loose thread or lint then loaded the fine squirrel-hair brush with pale blue, the colour of flax flower. With tiny arcing strokes she outlined the delicate petals before lightly filling them in. A cluster of six and the first was dry enough to trace thin veins in a stronger colour. Complete all six again and an even finer pointed brush of soft yellow added the stamens. A siren broke the silence. The posy would have to wait until Monday for leaves and a ribbon. Now it was Saturday dinnertime, work was over for the week and Irene had plans for the weekend that would begin as soon as she collected her wages from the office.

‘What are you doin’ the night?’ Theresa asked as they queued to collect their pay packets.

‘I’m going to see my friend Myrtle on the Newtownards Road. Remember, I told you about her? She’s a dancer.’

‘The one with the knickers?’ Irene had given Theresa a full account of the auditions.

‘Yeah, she’s a geg.’

‘Have youse told your Ma yet about the audition?’

‘No, we’re waiting until we hear about the first concert. We think she might let us go to that if we say Goldstein is short of an act and then, you know, she might get used to the idea.’

Theresa looked at her in surprise. ‘You mean you’re not going to tell her you went to the audition?’

‘What’s the point?’

‘The point is she’s goin’ te find out sooner or later, mammies always do. It’s a fact of life!’

Irene didn’t have an answer to that and was glad of the distraction of signing for her envelope and putting it in her bag.

‘You’re a bit dressed up, are ye goin’ out the night?’ asked Theresa.

‘Aye, there’s some Halloween dances. We might go to John Dossor’s, or maybe the Dundela Ballroom. What about you?’

‘Me Ma says I’ve to help her with our Marie’s first communion frock. We could be sewin’ an’ stickin’ pins in ourselves the whole weekend.’

They parted at the mill gates. Theresa headed up the Falls Road and Irene down town to the shops. Although it wasn’t much past one o’clock in the afternoon, the sky was grey and murky with a hint of mist that made her camel coat clammy to the touch.

A quick look in her pay packet showed she had thirty six shillings, the extra six for the overtime she’d worked on a special order of tablecloths and napkins for the Masonic Lodge. She decided to keep that for herself. Mammy would never know. She suddenly felt guilty, another deception to add to the lie about the audition and she didn’t tell her she was going to a dance either. Never mind, she’d be able to buy a lipstick of her own, go dancing and have a laugh with Myrtle. She calculated it might be thruppence on the tram, a shilling to get into the dance, another tuppence for a drink. With six shillings she was a woman of substance and she pushed open the door of Robb’s department store with all the confidence of an heiress. The woman on the Max Factor counter was very elegant, all in black, blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun. Irene couldn’t help staring at her eyebrows, or the lack of them! The thin arched pencil line gave her a look of perpetual surprise.

‘Can I help you, Madam?’ Her smile revealed tiny white teeth.

‘I’d like some lipstick, please.’

‘Yes certainly, what shade would you like?’

‘Red, please.’

The smile didn’t move. ‘Well, we have Scarlet, Crimson, Cherry, and then there are the dark pinks, Geranium, Fuchsia …’

‘Oh, I don’t know … what colour are you wearing?’

‘This is our latest colour, Pink Lady, very suitable for younger women. Would you like to test it?’ Without waiting for an answer she had turned to the rows of tiny wooden drawers with brass handles behind her, produced a gold lipstick and handed it across the counter.

Irene pulled off the fluted top and saw the colour of the carnations Mr Harper grew in his front garden. She could almost smell their scent as she moved to the mirror and pouted her lips.

‘Stop!’ shouted the assistant. ‘That’s not how you test lipstick.’ She took the lipstick, reached for Irene’s hand and drew a test streak across it.

‘Oh it’s lovely,’ whispered Irene. ‘How much is it?’

‘Two shillings’

Irene’s face fell.

‘Is this your first lipstick?’

Irene nodded.

‘I’ll tell you what, I’ve used this a few times as a tester, but it’s nearly new. I could let you have it for one shilling if you like.’

*

Irene caught the Holywood bus out of the city and as it crossed the Queen’s Bridge she saw the ship yards along the Lagan where her father had been apprenticed and spent all his working life. In the weeks since his death they had settled into only slightly altered routines: they didn’t set his place at the table; they peeled a few less potatoes; his boilersuit didn’t flutter on the washing line. In some ways he’d been a distant father. Often tired when he got home; he liked a quiet mealtime and a rest in his chair with the paper. He’d always been strict about manners − no elbows on the table, remember please and thank you − and responsibilities, cleaned rooms, shared chores.

It was different when they were younger and he was stronger. Sundays were family days and after church, if the weather was fine, they would travel all the way to Holywood to picnic and play on the beach. He’d organise races, giving head starts to each child according to age and he taught them to skim stones. Later, settled on an old blanket to eat their egg pieces, they’d ask him to tell again the story of the unsinkable boat he’d helped to build and how it came to grief in an icy sea.

She felt tears prick her eyes at the memories and understood for the first time since his death that she missed him just being there. Even so, one thing she knew for certain was that she’d not be wearing lipstick or going to a dance if he were still alive and his girls would certainly not be allowed to join a troupe of entertainers.

Myrtle was waiting at the Templemore Avenue stop and waved both hands as she spotted Irene on the platform.

‘Myrtle, what are you wearing?’ Irene gasped as she hopped on to the pavement.

‘Oh, ye like the trousers?’ Myrtle stuck her hip out and put her hands behind her head like some Hollywood film star.

Irene laughed. ‘And the turban!’

‘I’ve just come from work. Ye have to wear trousers in the aircraft factory. Did ye not know that? They can’t have girls climbin’ ladders in skirts, can they, or the men would never do any work.’

‘But don’t people stare at you in the street?’

‘Not round here, they know we’re from Shorts. Anyway, when we go out on the town the night, I promise I’ll wear a dress so you’re not embarrassed. Now come on, ye ejit.’ Myrtle linked her arm through Irene’s and they set off along a street of red brick terraces. On one corner some young men were standing about smoking and bantering.

‘What about ye, Myrtle?’ one of them shouted as they walked past. ‘Are ye not gonna introduce me te your friend?’

‘Ach, catch yerself on, Frankie. What would she want to know you for?’

‘Oh you’d be surprised what good lookin’ girls want to know me for, Myrtle.’

She pulled on Irene’s arm, quickened her pace and shouted over her shoulder, ‘You’ve a dirty mouth on ye, so ye have, Frankie Burns.’ Then she whispered to Irene, ‘Thinks he’s God’s gift t’ wemen, but they wouldn’t pass the time a day wi’ ‘im.’

The door to number fifteen was open and Irene followed Myrtle into the dimly lit front room.

‘Ye all right there, Grannie?’

Irene could just make out the shape of someone lying on a settee against the far wall. In the grey tiled fireplace to her right, a few coals glowed and above it, just catching the light through the cream lace curtain, King William looked down in triumph from his rearing white horse.

‘Ach, hello darlin’, is this your wee friend, ye were telling me about?’

‘Aye, this is Irene, Grannie. She’s come fer her tea, mind?’

The old woman struggled to sit up. ‘Oh aye, I mind. Me legs might be bad, but I’m still compos mentis.’ She looked at Irene and offered what sounded like an oft repeated explanation. ‘Ulcerated, the doctor says. Aye, an’ sure why wouldn’t they be? Me standin’ on that fish stall, all weathers for thirty years.’ At the sound of her voice a budgie in the cage behind her began to sing, quietly at first, then louder and more urgently. ‘Would ye shut up, Joey, we’ve visitors can’t ye see!’ She reached back towards the cage and retrieved an old towel. ‘Here, Myrtle, cover ‘im up for God’s sake. Give me head a bit a peace.’ Then Grannie closed her eyes and in the darkness Joey did the same.

Myrtle put her finger to her lips and motioned Irene to follow her. The stairs were steep and narrow with worn oilcloth nailed to them.

‘I share a room with me sister, she’s only six. Think she’s out playin’. Anyway, I’ve told her she’s te stay out of the room while we’re here. Me da an’ our Tom sleep in there.’ She indicated the room on the left and pushed open the door on the right and went in. Suddenly, there was an evil laugh and a dark figure with a hideous face jumped out of the wardrobe. Myrtle screamed and grabbed the figure roughly. ‘Jesus Christ, Tom, ye wee messer! I told you to keep outta the way, so I did.’

Tom removed the cardboard mask and grinned. ‘Youse are right scardy baas, ‘fraid of an oul false face. Is this your friend then?’

‘It is.’ Myrtle dragged him by his collar and pushed him out the door. ‘And this, Irene, is my wee get of a brother Tom, fourteen goin’ on five an’ a half.’

‘Me da won’t be home ‘til late and he says you’ve te make me tea.’

‘Aye, well I say you’re an ugly brute, even without the false face, an’ ye can make your own tea,’ and she slammed the door.

Irene sat on the faded gold eiderdown; the bed was hard and sagged in the middle. Myrtle reached for her handbag, pulled out a packet of five Woodbine, pushed up the bottom and offered one.

‘Here ye are.’

‘Oh, I don’t smoke.’

Myrtle laughed. ‘Course ye do. Here I’ll light it for ye.’

*

Peggy had suggested to Goldstein several times that he should employ a Saturday assistant, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

‘You do very well, Peggy, takings are always good. And you can put up the closed sign and have your lunch, can’t you?’

She’d tried telling him that profits would go up if they could serve the customers quicker, but he shrugged his shoulders. ‘How so? If a customer wants some sheet music he will not mind whether it takes five or ten minutes to buy.’

Then she tried explaining that she spent all her time selling records and sheet music and so couldn’t deal with customers who were interested in the instruments or wirelesses.

‘Persons wanting to purchase a wireless do not come to buy on a Saturday afternoon,’ he explained as though talking to a ten year old.

Peggy wanted to say that even a ten year old who spent a Saturday in the shop would be hard pressed to see the logic in Goldstein’s argument, but she bit her tongue for once.

At twelve o’clock Peggy hung the ‘Closed for Dinner’ sign on the door and drew the blinds. In the pokey little kitchen at the back of the shop she put on the kettle and unwrapped her piece. Meat paste again. How many times had she told Mammy she’d rather have plain bread and butter? She’d a good mind to throw them in the bin, except she was famished. To cap it all, the wee bit of milk saved from yesterday was sour and she’d have to drink her tea black. Still, it was good to take off her high heels and after she’d eaten her dinner, she stretched out sideways on the battered leather armchair, with her legs dangling over one arm and her head resting on the other. She could feel her eyes closing and thought she could trust herself to take just five minutes …

… She was on a swing, wearing a beautiful white dress and gazing out over the Tara plantation thinking of Ashley Wilkes …

No she wasn’t! She was in the shop, the bell was ringing and that was a customer who couldn’t read. In seconds she was on her feet and through the door.

‘I’m sorry we’re—’

He was leaning on the counter smiling.

‘Closed, yes, I saw the sign.’

‘You’re not supposed to be in here. The shop’s—’

‘Closed, but I don’t want to buy anything.’

Peggy smiled. ‘Oh, I thought maybe you’d come back for the gramophone.’

He laughed and nodded as if acknowledging the point went to her. ‘Ach no,’ he confessed and looked serious. ‘I’ve come back for you.’

‘But I’m not for sale.’

‘I know, but maybe I could take you out on loan.’

‘You want The Central Library up the street.’