A Song in my Heart Read online

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Joe.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pat, ‘I was miles away. What do I think about …?’

  ‘I thought you might like to have a drink or something. There’s a hotel we passed just up the road.’

  ‘Well … yes, that would be nice.’

  They went through the revolving doors of the Royal Hotel to the lounge, found a quiet corner, and Joe ordered a beer and some coffee for Pat.

  ‘Things are happening so quickly now,’ she said. ‘Soon there’ll be hardly any Americans left in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘And will you miss us when we go?’

  ‘Of course, but you won’t be going will you?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll all go.’

  ‘But what about the American Services Club?’

  ‘They’ll lock it up, maybe sell it. It was a dancehall once, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, the Plaza. I’ll be sad if they close it.’

  ‘And will you be sad when I’m gone?’

  Pat put her head on one side and pretended to study him. She had grown used to his face – the pale green eyes and strong features, and the way he always listened.

  ‘Yes, I think I will,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘You had me worried there, lady!’

  ‘Joe, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘When Eisenhower comes here next week, would it be possible for me to speak to him?’

  ‘Patti, if this is about Tony I have to be honest with you, Eisenhower can’t take his eye off the ball. The stakes are too high. Yes, he’s the man responsible for every soldier, airman and sailor, but he’s not gonna be in a position to find out what’s happened to Tony.’

  ‘But if he could send a message or something to his commanders he might be found, Joe. I think Tony’s ended up with the wrong battalion in all the confusion after the fighting.’

  Joe leaned towards her and spoke softly. ‘Eisenhower is in supreme command of this whole operation. You must see that he can’t start looking for one lost GI when he’s busy putting an end to the war.’

  In that moment, Pat knew that it was all over. Tony was lost and her certainty that he would come back to her disappeared in a wave of black despair.

  Joe tried to console her, but she seemed not to hear him and when he put his arm around her to comfort her it made no difference. They drove back to Belfast in silence and outside her house Joe asked if he should come inside with her. She shook her head, stepped out of the jeep and never looked back.

  Martha was all smiles when Pat came in. ‘Well, did you have a good time?’

  ‘No,’ said Pat, ‘I felt sick in the car, I don’t want any tea,’ and she went straight to her room.

  She lay awake half the night thinking about Tony and every time the thought that he had been killed crept into her mind she pushed it away. ‘Please be all right. Please be all right,’ she repeated over and over. When she awoke, tired and groggy, an echo of her words came to her, miraculously transformed: ‘I am all right. I am all right,’ as though Tony was right there with her.

  On the day of Eisenhower’s visit Pat took a day’s leave and caught the train to Bangor. The weather was so good that she hired a deck chair at Pickie Pool in the morning, had her dinner at the Jubilee Café, and then walked to the North Pier. A small crowd had already gathered and she could see Joe further along the pier with his group of dignitaries. She got herself on the front line where she’d get a good view of Eisenhower when he arrived. There was a holiday atmosphere among the people around her, and excitement at being part of history. ‘Now, ye see yer man Eisenhower,’ said the woman next to her, ‘he’ll be the one in charge of this enterprise, nobody else, not yer Churchills, nor yer Montgomerys.’

  Then a man added, ‘Aye, and it was Eisenhower who chose Belfast to be the start of all this. Sure, there’s half the whole Allied fleet out there in the lough.’

  ‘Where’s the other half?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Who cares?’ said the man. ‘Belfast’s the place that matters.’

  At that moment there were shouts of ‘He’s here!’ Pat quickly opened her bag and took out her piece of paper, but too late she realised that the crowd had surged and people had pushed in front of her. She panicked and tried to squeeze through them. ‘Please let me through.’ She caught sight of the general’s head and shoulders above the men and women who crowded round him; she saw him smile and wave. But she was hemmed in, people pressed against her and all she could see was the back of his head as he walked away. In seconds he would be gone. She had to do something. If only she could attract his attention. Her eyes widened. There was something …

  She took a deep breath and began to sing ‘Dove Sono’ from The Marriage of Figaro, the lament of lost love, the same aria she had sung for Eisenhower all those months ago.

  The crowd was momentarily hushed by the sound as it floated over their heads and Eisenhower, no more than twenty feet away, slowed down, stopped, turned. Pat sang on. Eisenhower listened, smiled and spoke to an aide.

  The young officer came into the crowd, which parted to allow him to see Pat. He asked her to come with him and together they walked to where Eisenhower was standing. He recognised her, shook her hand warmly. ‘We met at Stormont, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to be serenaded on the quayside.’

  ‘I have to confess, I sang in the hope of attracting your attention.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, you’ve got me.’

  ‘My fiancé Tony Farrelly of the 34th is reported MIA after the battle at Monte Cassino. I thought maybe you …’ She suddenly saw how foolish she had been. On the eve of this huge military endeavour why would anyone care about one lost GI? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t have come,’ and she turned to walk away.

  ‘What’s that in your hand?’ asked Eisenhower.

  ‘His name, rank and serial number.’

  Eisenhower took it from her, put it in his breast pocket and saluted.

  On 2 June, the fleet set sail from Belfast Lough with thirty thousand mariners on board. Four days later, Martha and her girls listened to the wireless reports of the D-Day landings on the Normandy beaches. ‘Praise be to God,’ said Martha.

  Chapter 34

  Goldstein had been out to lunch at his club and when he returned to the shop it was clear that something had upset him. His face bore that haunted look that Martha remembered from those awful weeks after Esther died.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked.

  He handed her the early edition of the Belfast Telegraph and she read the headline: ‘Plane Crashes on Cave Hill’.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Martha. ‘What happened?’

  ‘An American plane, one of those Flying Fortresses, was on its descent into Nutts Corner, but …’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me it was the fog.’ Martha shook her head in despair.

  ‘Yes, it seems the pilot couldn’t see the hill, or didn’t know how high it was and flew straight into the side of it. The plane came down somewhere near the Floral Hall.’

  Peggy, who had been listening, suddenly burst into tears and ran into the office.

  Goldstein watched her go, a look of anguish on his face. ‘It’s just brought it all back. Seven crew members, boys really, lost just like Esther in the fog. Their poor families …’

  ‘I’ll go and speak to her,’ said Martha.

  But Peggy wouldn’t listen; she just kept repeating, ‘It’s all my fault that Esther died, it’s all my fault,’ and getting more and more distraught.

  ‘You can’t keep blaming yourself,’ Martha told her.

  ‘But it’s true,’ she said, and covered her face with her hands.

  Goldstein appeared in the doorway and said, ‘Let me speak to her,’ but Martha looked uncertain.

  ‘Please …’ he said. ‘Let me.’

  When Martha left, Goldstein went and sat next to Peggy. He waited until
she took her hands from her face and looked at him.

  ‘When people lose someone close to them,’ he began, ‘they sometimes blame themselves. They say things like, “If only I had done this” or “I should not have done that”. We feel guilty and, believe me, that is normal.’

  ‘But it is my fault.’

  ‘How so?’ said Goldstein. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘If I hadn’t let myself be taken in by Archie Dewer, we wouldn’t have been out that night and Esther would still be here. I shouldn’t have had anything to do with him after the way he treated Harry at Christmas.’

  ‘I know why you feel like that,’ said Goldstein. ‘I could blame myself too.’

  ‘How could it be your fault?’ said Peggy.

  ‘Because if I had told Esther that I disapproved of her mixing socially with Major Dewer, as I should have done, she would still be here.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you stop her?’

  ‘I keep asking myself that question but, you know, it was because I wanted her to go to the show, something she would really enjoy, and when I heard she would be going with a Jewish boy …’ He shook his head sadly. ‘To cap it all, I was the one who said she should be home by midnight …’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Peggy, ‘you can’t, you really can’t blame yourself.’

  ‘You are right, Peggy, it has taken me a while, but I know now that it is nobody’s fault. Not yours, not mine – it just happened. Esther could have died in Poland, but she escaped and came to us and she loved every minute of her life here, especially with you as her friend. It was an accident. We are not to blame.’

  And Peggy saw the certainty in his face. ‘I think I understand,’ she said.

  Pat had just come out of a meeting to discuss Emergency Factory Made houses – prefabs. How many they could apply for and where in the bomb-damaged city they should be erected. What with that, and the new proposals for free meals for school pupils, she felt that at last the families who had suffered most in the bombings could look forward to a better life. She had just returned to her desk when one of the Stormont doormen appeared in the office.

  He took a moment to catch his breath. ‘There’s somebody wants to see you downstairs,’ he said, and added, with a roll of his eyes, ‘a Yank.’

  Pat’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘How would I know? An officer.’

  Pat straightened her skirt and ran her fingers through her hair. Could it be news about Tony? She ran down the stairs and along the corridor to the main entrance. There was nobody waiting. Then she caught sight of the uniform outside, a tall officer with his back to her. He turned as she came through the door.

  Joe.

  ‘Hello Patti,’ was all he said. There was no smile.

  ‘What’s happened? Is it Tony? Tell me.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘I don’t have any news about Tony. I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m shipping out.’

  Pat felt the relief rush through her – no news was good news – but this was followed by another powerful emotion, a feeling of impending loss.

  She touched his arm. ‘Oh Joe, I’m going to miss you.’

  He looked at her hand resting on his arm. ‘Do you think we could take a walk?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pat. ‘We could wander down the avenue a bit, if you like.’

  Pat was glad to be out of doors in the warm sunshine, walking the long driveway that ran from Stormont Buildings on the hill.

  ‘That was some stunt you pulled on Eisenhower,’ said Joe.

  Pat looked at him, surprised by his tone. ‘I had to do something. I couldn’t let an opportunity like that pass me by.’

  ‘But it’s come to nothing.’

  ‘Well, not yet.’

  Joe pressed on. ‘What will you do if he doesn’t come back?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about that, Joe. I’ll always believe he’s alive until somebody tells me he isn’t.’

  That seemed to put an end to the conversation and they walked in silence for a while until Joe caught her arm and they stopped. ‘Patti, forgive me, I can’t leave without telling you …’

  She saw the anguish in his face. ‘Telling me what?’

  ‘That I love you.’

  Pat’s eyes widened.

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘That’s good. I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable. I knew it was hopeless, of course, you were engaged to Tony. I would never have told you how I felt. Gee, I’m only telling you now because …’ He seemed to struggle to find the words. ‘I’ve prayed so much these last few days since the orders came through and I know we’re on our way to France …’ His voice cracked. ‘But Patti, I can’t die without telling you that I love you.’

  Pat stared at him. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything. I just want you to know I’ve loved you ever since that morning at your aunt’s school when we marched in with all those kids and there you were – with your beautiful smile – and you shook my hand and thanked me. I’d never met anyone like you before.’

  If only she could take away the hurt in his eyes. ‘Oh Joe …’

  She loved his kindness, his honesty, the way he had supported her. Given another time and place, she might well have fallen in love with him.

  Joe seemed to sense her thoughts. ‘Maybe if things had been different …’

  She wanted to touch him, but knew instinctively that he wouldn’t want that. ‘Joe, you mean so much to me. You’ve always been there, soothing my fears and taking care of me. What will I do without you?’

  They retraced their steps until they stood again in front of the grand portico. Pat held out her hand to him. ‘You’ve been the best of friends, Joe. Take care of yourself.’

  He took her hand, held it a moment. ‘Goodbye, Patti,’ he said, then walked to his jeep and drove away.

  When Pat arrived home that evening she was surprised to hear the sound of Peggy’s high-pitched laughter as she came through the door. She followed the sound to the sitting room to see Peggy waving a letter in the air and her mother smiling broadly.

  ‘Oh Pat, you’ll never believe it. Harry Ferguson has written to me.’

  ‘Really? I thought he had fallen out with you after that row at Christmas with Archie Dewer.’

  ‘He had, but after all this time he’s got in touch with me.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘Well, the letter must’ve been written just before the D-Day landings because he says he’ll be leaving England to go and fight and he hopes this is the beginning of the end of the war. He says he thinks about me all the time and he’s sorry that he didn’t see me before he left. He should have answered the letter I left with his mother, but he was angry.’ Peggy’s voice was faltering and she swallowed hard before reading from the letter. ‘At the end he says, “You know I’ve always loved you and, when the war is over, I’ll come and find you and I hope you’ll forgive me.” Isn’t that lovely?’

  ‘It is, Peggy. That’ll be something to look forward to.’

  For days after Joe’s confession of love, Pat was plunged into a deep melancholy. She was the sole cause of his sadness and, although in a way she did love him, it was not the same kind of love she had for Tony. Now Joe too was gone and soon there would be no American troops in Belfast at all. Their good humour, generosity and just the sight of them in their uniforms – she would miss all of it.

  Chapter 35

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sheila, looking at the vast expanse of material spread across several beds in the hut.

  ‘Can you not guess?’ said Clemmie. ‘Here, feel it.’

  Sheila touched the soft material and rubbed it between her fingers. ‘Oh, I know, it’s silk, like my sister’s orange sari from India.’

  ‘Yes it’s silk, but what’s it used for?’

  ‘Ah – a parachute.’ Sheila laughed. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Let’s just say it wa
s damaged in transit and no longer fit for its original purpose so I requisitioned it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Knickers!’ said Clemmie. ‘We’re going turn it into silk knickers.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With precision, skill and teamwork. Oh yes, and a bit luck that we don’t get caught.’

  ‘There’s a lot of material there,’ said Sheila. ‘We’ll have to hide it somewhere when we have kit inspections.’

  Thought of that,’ said Clemmie. ‘It’s over sixty yards, but it’s so fine we can store it in a kit bag under the floor boards. There’s a loose plank in that far corner.’

  The following day was a Sunday, and most of the girls were in the hut first thing, getting ready to go to the mess for breakfast. Clemmie gathered them round and explained her plan. Everyone was excited at the idea, but they asked a lot of questions.

  ‘So all of us will get silk knickers?’

  ‘Well, one pair each I think,’ said Clemmie.

  ‘Who’s going to make them?’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘I’m a good needle woman; used to make patchwork quilts before the war. If anyone else is good at sewing, they can make them too.’

  ‘What will they look like?’

  Jessica held up a pair of her beautiful French silk knickers and told them, ‘We’re going to use these as the pattern, except there won’t be any lace. They don’t have lace on parachutes. Sheila will be in charge of measuring and adapting the pattern if you’re a different size from me. I’ll do the cutting out.’

  Barbara put her hand up. ‘Is it a German parachute or one of ours?’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’ said Jessica, and everyone laughed.

  It was agreed that Clemmie would make the first pair for herself as part of her trousseau and if they turned out all right she would make two pairs a week. They then drew lots for the order in which their knickers would be made.

  It was usual for Jessica to drive the Commanding Officer to Londonderry every week for a meeting and, on her first trip after the parachute came into their possession, she sought out a draper’s shop that sold fine thread, needles, dressmaking pins and a tape measure. While she was there she spotted some lace, but the sales girl could only let her have a couple of yards. ‘Now if you need a lot more, I could get that for you – cash only and no coupons needed.’