A Song in my Heart Read online

  It being Saturday and the Jewish Sabbath, Peggy was alone in the shop all day. She opened a little later than usual so that she could hang the ball gown on the back of the office door to let the creases drop out. All day she chose her favourite dance records and played them louder that Mr Goldstein allowed, imagining what it would feel like to dance with Archie. She closed the shop as normal at six and an hour later she was standing outside in her ball gown. She caught her reflection in the shop window: face like a Max Factor model and hair swept up like Olivia de Havilland.

  The look on Archie’s face was just what she’d hoped for and as she got into the car, he leaned over to kiss her cheek and whispered in her ear, ‘You take my breath away.’

  He drove over the river and out along the south shore of the lough. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘The hotel’s out in the country towards Bangor.’

  ‘I didn’t realise we’d be going so far.’

  Archie laughed and put his foot down and the car roared away. ‘It’s not far, don’t worry. We’ve got the whole night ahead of us.’

  The hotel was off the main road at the end of a long drive. The entrance hall looked like it had seen better days, but as they entered the ballroom Peggy couldn’t help but admire the tables, set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery and capturing some of the hotel’s pre-war grandeur. The room was full of well-dressed couples, mostly businessmen with their wives. As they waited to be seated, Peggy was aware of eyes darting in their direction and some outright stares at the sight of the tall, uniformed officer and the dark-haired girl in the striking midnight blue and silver dress. They were shown to a table for two and Archie immediately moved his chair closer to Peggy.

  ‘Have you ever had champagne?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes – lots of bubbles – lovely.’

  ‘My goodness, quite the woman of the world, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really. I drank it once, a long time ago.’ And she smiled at the memory. Sipping champagne with Harry Ferguson – how long ago it seemed.

  ‘You look … wistful.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Are you sad?’

  ‘No, it’s a nice memory.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  And it seemed the most natural thing in the world to talk about the French restaurant, the champagne and the midnight drive on that first date with Harry.

  ‘And where is he now?’ asked Archie, his voice soft and comforting.

  ‘He’s in the army and I don’t know when I’ll see him again.’

  ‘Well,’ said Archie, ‘I’m not Harry, but I know how to make a beautiful woman happy … if you’ll let me.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Will you let me?’

  She looked into his handsome face and his laughing eyes, and nodded.

  The meal was a poor affair of overcooked meat and watery vegetables, but Archie was such good company that Peggy didn’t notice. He told her about London: the theatres, restaurants, art galleries. ‘You’ll have to come and visit me after the war,’ he said. ‘You’d love it. We could have dinner at the Dorchester, followed by a West End show, then drinks at the Ritz. Would you like that?’

  Peggy was enthralled. ‘Oh Archie, could we really?’

  And right there, surrounded by all those stuffy, middle-aged people, Archie leaned towards her. ‘Of course we could, my darling,’ he said, and kissed her full on the lips.

  Eventually, the meal was cleared away, the lights dimmed and it was time for dancing. Archie led her on to the floor. He was probably the tallest man she had ever danced with and certainly the most skilled. Peggy knew a good dancer needed a combination of precise steps, a finely tuned sense of rhythm and the confidence to be creative. Archie had all of these, but by the time the first dance, a waltz, had finished, Peggy knew he had something else – an instinctive sense of his partner’s body. He held her a fraction more closely than she had ever been held and used the lightest of touches to blend her body with his. It felt like heaven.

  The dances came and went: foxtrot, quickstep, tango, quick waltz, slow waltz, and all too soon it was time for the orchestra to take a break. Archie and Peggy reluctantly returned to their table. Archie ordered more champagne and Peggy went to find the ladies’ powder room. She spotted the sign and went through the door into a little vestibule. She was about to pull open the next door, when she heard a woman’s voice from inside.

  ‘A British officer, I ask you. He’s old enough to be her father. I’ve a good mind to complain to the management – these wee Belfast girls are a disgrace.’

  Peggy hesitated. Should she walk away or brazen it out? But she’d done nothing wrong. Why couldn’t she go out dancing – where was the harm in that? She pulled open the door and swept in to face the women. She was calm and her voice was steady: ‘You’re entitled to your opinion of course, but let me tell you that this Belfast girl is the Assistant Director of Entertainment responsible for organising Entertainment National Service Association concerts and I’m here tonight with the major to decide whether this hotel is suitable for a white-tie ball to raise money for war charities.’ She paused to let her words sink in before adding, ‘But as far as I can see, the clientele would be inappropriate for the military top brass.’

  The women looked at each other, uncertain how to respond. One of them, a plump woman in a puce-coloured, 1930s-style gown flushed the colour of her dress. The other opened her mouth as if to protest then thought better of it. Peggy stepped aside and they went quickly past her, muttering about how anyone can make a mistake. Peggy rinsed her hands in cold water and stared at herself in the mirror. Despite her sharp words to the women, their assumptions had hurt her deeply. Archie was older, but that’s why he was so sophisticated and so attentive. No one, not even Harry, had ever made her feel so self-assured and attractive as Archie did. She powdered her nose and reapplied her lipstick and looked at herself from side to side in the mirror. How could anyone mistake her for one of those sugar daddy girls?

  The first dance after the interval was a slow waltz to the tune of ‘I Only have Eyes for You’ and Peggy’s head was light with champagne and the romance of the song. She melted into Archie’s arms and felt blissfully content as his kisses caressed her neck. The room disappeared from view as he softly sang the refrain and Peggy wondered if this was what it felt like to fall in love. She thought she loved Harry, but this … this was … and she moaned softly as she tilted her head for Archie to kiss her again.

  Without warning her head began to spin and her legs gave way. Archie held her upright, guided her back to her seat and knelt beside her. ‘Looks like you’ve had a bit too much champagne,’ he said. ‘What about a bit of fresh air? Maybe that’ll make you feel better?’

  As soon as the frosty air hit Peggy her head began to clear. Archie suggested, if she was up to it, that a short walk would help and he took off his tunic and put it round her shoulders.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Peggy was close to tears. ‘I’ve spoilt everything.’

  ‘Hush, my lovely girl, you’ll be right as rain in no time,’ he said, and he pulled her to him and stroked her hair.

  She shivered and looked up at him, her cheeks wet with tears. ‘Maybe we should leave – it must be late.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’ll be fine. Tell you what, why don’t we go up to the room now and we’ll get you warm and cosy?’

  It was a moment before she shaped his words into some sort of sense.

  ‘What room?’

  Archie took the strand of hair that had escaped from her chignon and tucked it behind her ear. ‘Our room,’ he whispered, ‘where we’ll spend the night together, just as I promised.’

  Peggy’s eyes opened wide with fright, her mind suddenly putting together all the signals she had misinterpreted. Peggy gasped in horror. How could she have been so naive? She pushed him away. ‘I never meant to stay all night. I’d never do anything like that.’ But he held her fast. ‘Don’t be frightened. I promise you it’ll be wonderful – you and me.’

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sp; ‘I want to go home!’ Peggy shouted.

  ‘But when we were dancing, I know you wanted to be with me; I could see it in your eyes.’ He bent forward to kiss her as he had done before.

  She turned away from him. ‘Let me go!’ she cried and suddenly she was free while Archie stood, hands by his sides, with a look of bewilderment on his face.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ he said. ‘I thought you … Never mind – I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’m not getting in a car with you,’ she said, and in her shame she turned and ran down the drive, away from the lights of the hotel and into the darkness.

  The gravel under her feet was uneven and she had just gone over in her high heels when she was caught in the sweep of a car’s headlights. She struggled to get back on her feet, determined not to get in his car. Her heart was thumping, and she began to run. The car caught up with her and there was the sound of the window being wound down.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ she yelled.

  The car drove a little way past her and stopped; a dark figure got out of the passenger side. ‘Well, my dear, I feel we have both made mistakes tonight.’ The voice was familiar. It was the woman in the puce dress from the powder room. ‘Please, do get in the car. My husband and I will see you get home safely.’

  It was a while before Peggy’s heart stopped racing and even longer before she realised that she still had Archie Dewer’s tunic over her shoulders. Never mind, if he was court-martialled for being inappropriately dressed when he got back to barracks, he had only himself to blame.

  Her rescuers dropped her at the end of her street and as she passed an alleyway she stepped into the shadows, removed Archie’s tunic, rolled it up and dropped it in a dustbin.

  Chapter 13

  The celebration of the first anniversary of the landing of American troops was a great success. The massed bands of the Royal Ulster Rifles and the Royal Irish Fusiliers led the march-past of American military personnel through the city centre to the grounds of the City Hall, where a small monument commemorating the event was unveiled. The following day, Sir Basil Brooke sent for the team who had liaised with US officers and Belfast Corporation to ensure its success. He was clearly delighted. ‘Excellent work,’ he said. ‘Better than I thought possible. Don’t know if you’ve seen the Belfast Telegraph this morning?’ He proceeded to read from the paper. ‘“The most brilliant spectacle to be staged in the British Isles since the outbreak of the Second World War.” Magnificent. That will show Westminster what we can do.’

  The team filed out of his office, but Pat lingered. ‘Excuse me, Sir Basil,’ she said.

  He looked up from the newspaper. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was seconded to the team to liaise with the Americans about the parade, sir. Can I return to my position in the Ministry of Public Security?’

  Sir Basil looked taken aback. ‘Why would you want to go back?’

  ‘Because I was working to help people in bombed-out areas.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ he said. ‘I’m responsible for dealing with the Americans and I need you on my team.’

  ‘But the families are desperate. The water and electricity supplies still haven’t been restored to some areas.’

  Basil Brooke gave her a hard stare. ‘As far as I’m concerned you’re staying here. However, this is the Ministry of Commerce and strictly speaking those services come under my jurisdiction. I would be prepared to give you the authority to work with the water and electricity boards when you’re not needed to deal with the Americans. What do you say?’

  A week later, Pat was back in Sir Basil Brooke’s office.

  ‘I want you to arrange something, but I’m not quite sure what,’ he said. ‘Last night a Flying Fortress bomber on its way from England to the United States made an unscheduled stop on the airstrip at Nutts Corner. Engine problems, apparently. The plane was carrying the Supreme Commander of Allied Expeditionary Force in Europe, General Dwight Eisenhower. It’ll be twenty-four hours at least before a replacement part arrives. Eisenhower is a man who never sits still and he’s asked if he can tour Belfast docks to see the facilities there, no doubt to ascertain how effective we can be in supporting American warships. As the minister in charge of these facilities I will accompany him.’

  ‘Do you need me to arrange this?’ asked Pat.

  ‘No, that was done late last night and they’re expecting us there in a couple of hours. No, it’s what happens after that. I want to take this opportunity to show the Americans what Ulster commerce is capable of, not just now, but after the war. The American dollar, military and civilian, is exactly what we’ll need to expand our industries. From the moment I meet him until he gets back on that plane I want him to see us in a favourable light. I’ll take care of the commerce aspect, but I need you to get the rest of it right. Get on to your contacts among the American officers and find out everything you can about him – what he likes to eat, what sort of people he might enjoy meeting, anything that might entertain him or make him feel at ease with us while he waits for that plane.’

  Pat thought quickly. It would be best if, after touring the docks and factories, Eisenhower could relax. She knew that Sir Basil was regarded as a bit of a live wire personality-wise, and socially he was regarded as good company. Suddenly she realised why he was wearing his uniform; he was a military man at heart, having fought in the Great War, and no doubt he had worn it today to let Eisenhower know he was not simply a politician, but a man who understood the nature of war.

  ‘I think we should bring him back here to Stormont for the evening,’ said Pat. ‘Every American officer has been impressed by its grandeur. We’ll lay on a good meal and provide some entertainment based on his tastes. Invite maybe half a dozen military men to join you. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s it. Give him an enjoyable evening in the company of men like himself. Just the job. Right, off you go and get it done. We’ll be gone most of the day, but send a despatch rider to find me with the evening schedule as soon as you have it.’

  The first thing Pat did was to ring Captain Walters at the American Services Club. ‘I need you to tell me everything you know about Eisenhower,’ she said.

  By late afternoon the arrangements were almost complete. The top US Army chef had arrived with the ingredients for Eisenhower’s favourite meal and was already in the Stormont kitchen beginning preparation. The military guests had been selected, the room was prepared and finally Pat received a message from one of Eisenhower’s aides-de-camp informing her that the Supreme Allied Commander had a passion for Mozart. She rang Goldstein straight away. ‘We’ve a special guest at Stormont tonight who’s very fond of Mozart. Could you get Esther here by seven o’clock to play for him and Reuben, of course, to accompany her?’

  The room chosen for the intimate evening was perfect. At one end there was a large marble fireplace above which hung a painting with the Giant’s Causeway in the foreground and, in the background, rolling Atlantic waves. There were large Chesterfield sofas upholstered in dark blue leather and several matching armchairs. On the mahogany side tables there were Waterford crystal lamps glittering with light. There was also a large sideboard with decanters and a cigar box, a baby grand piano and, finally, a circular dining table at the far end of the room set for eight. Perfect.

  Pat had just enough time to wash her face and comb her hair before the guests began to arrive. She was so glad she had chosen her pale grey woollen dress to wear to work that morning. It was a flattering A-line shape with glossy black buttons and a scalloped collar. Yes, it did make her look like a civil servant, but a stylish one nevertheless.

  The first guests began to arrive and Eisenhower’s aide introduced himself. ‘I hope you got my message okay about the opera?’

  Pat’s heart began to race. ‘Opera?’ she said. ‘The message said Mozart.’

  ‘Yeah, Mozart, he wrote opera, yeah?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course he did, but he wrote lots of other things as well.�
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  ‘You don’t say. Talented guy.’

  Pat could have screamed, but at that moment Goldstein arrived with Esther and Reuben. She took them to one side and thanked them for coming. ‘It’s a supper for Eisenhower and he loves Mozart, but …’ and she explained the misunderstanding about the opera. Goldstein shrugged his shoulders. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I have never met a lover of Mozart’s operas who did not also enjoy the rest of his music. Esther and Reuben have a good range of Mozart in their repertoire and this will be a wonderful experience for them to play for such a prestigious audience.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Reuben, his voice heavily accented. ‘When I was music student in Warsaw I accompany my friend.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Goldstein, ‘I know you have a wide repertoire.’

  ‘My friend was soprano.’

  Goldstein looked from Reuben to Pat and back again.

  Pat saw the look in his eyes. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘You could do it. Just two arias would be enough,’ Goldstein insisted. ‘What about the ones you’ve sung at weddings?’

  Pat thought for a moment. The last thing she wanted was to make a rash decision that she’d end up regretting. On the other hand she was responsible for ensuring Eisenhower enjoyed his evening and would have the best possible impression of Northern Ireland. ‘I’ll need to think about this,’ she said. ‘Esther, Reuben, do you want to get set up now? You’ll be playing while the guests have a drink, but you should leave when they sit down to dinner. Then you’ll return for a short session afterwards.’

  She turned to Goldstein. ‘It’s disappointing, but I think we should just forget about the arias.’

  Undeterred, Goldstein asked, ‘You said there was a second session?’

  ‘Yes, after dinner when they have cigars and brandy.’

  ‘Well, let us see what we can do between now and then.’

  And at that moment Sir Basil Brooke entered the room, followed by General Eisenhower. Esther, with Reuben accompanying her on the baby grand, began to play Mozart’s violin sonata No. 21.