A Song in my Heart Page 4

  ‘You see, I told you he’d be fine,’ said Martha.

  Pat opened the envelope carefully and quickly scanned the first page. ‘He’s been on intensive special training somewhere remote by the sounds of it. Now that’s finished he says he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance to write again. You know what that means, don’t you? He’ll be shipped out soon. This’ll be the letter he was allowed to write before being posted.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Of course I do, it’s exactly what he told me would happen. What he’s saying is a bit vague, but he knew he couldn’t explain in detail in a letter because it would be censored. I just didn’t think it would take so long to hear from him. There’s talk of the Americans being sent to North Africa, you know. But look, he’s written me three more pages and they won’t be about his posting.’

  Martha peeled the potatoes then chopped the scallions and every now and then looked up to see Pat smiling as she read and re-read her letter. It was a worry that Tony would soon be on active service and she hoped that Pat’s nerves would hold through the long separation.

  By the time the potatoes were boiling, Martha had come to the conclusion that Pat needed something to focus on, something that would take her out of herself.

  ‘You know, Pat, you could push to get help for those families.’

  ‘Ach, Mammy, I’m sure better people than me have tried, but there’s just so much that needs to be done.’

  ‘Then why not start with Frankie’s family or even his street? You’re good at organising and getting things done.’

  ‘But there’s no money.’

  ‘It’s not about money.’ Martha was warming to the idea. ‘Make do and mend they say. It’s willpower that’s needed, not money. Find some of that and you’ll begin to see things happen. Did you say he lives near the Markets?’ Pat nodded. ‘Then you should talk to Aunt Kathleen; he’s probably one of her pupils.’

  Chapter 4

  Cyril Wood had been a civil servant for over thirty years and he prided himself on his ability to spot a good clerk with potential for promotion. Patricia Goulding was one. She’d worked with young William Kennedy and he often spoke about her sound judgement. Then she kept the Americans in line, even turned a run-down dance hall into a successful services club. It was good to have her back in his department and causing a bit of a stir.

  Her one-page memo on his desk was concise and outlined a seemingly modest, but potentially bold, strategy. He took his pen and scrawled across the top of the page, ‘Approved’. He’d give her a month and see what progress she could make. He just hoped it wouldn’t ruffle feathers.

  Pat sat at her desk staring at a list of ideas to help families in bomb-damaged areas and realised that she had certainly bit off more than she could chew. How could she make landlords mend roofs and windows, or the corporation fix water pipes and sewers? She only had a month to get things moving and Christmas would eat into that time. And then she realised, Christmas wasn’t a problem – it was an opportunity. She couldn’t fix the big things, but she could make sure that Frankie and his street had a good Christmas. She quickly made another list, put on her coat and caught the bus to the city centre.

  When Pat walked through the door of the American Red Cross Services Club it felt like coming home, everything was so familiar. But there was sadness too. This was where she and Tony had spent so much time creating a club for American soldiers. The colour of the paint in the entrance hall, the light fittings, even the size and position of the handsome reception desk, brought back every discussion, every decision they made. She didn’t recognise the soldier who greeted her, but why would she? It was two months since all the GIs she knew had been sent overseas.

  ‘Hi ma’am, can I help you?’

  ‘I was hoping to speak to the officer in charge.’

  ‘He’s kinda busy at the moment, but if you wait here … Who shall I say—’

  ‘Patricia Goulding.’ But there was no flicker of recognition from the soldier, and the excitement and confidence she had felt when she left the office quickly evaporated. She waited. People came and went and each time the door to the ballroom swung open Pat moved a little closer to catch a look inside. Eventually, she could bear it no longer.

  Beyond the doors, the sight of the beautiful Canadian maple dance floor brought her close to tears. She remembered the day it was finished, the day she and Tony had danced on it – the first people ever to do so. She recalled how he kissed her … could almost feel the soft caress of his lips. It was where he had proposed. The tears pricked her eyes.

  ‘Patti, Patti Goulding! Gee, is it really you?’ An American officer she didn’t recognise was crossing the floor towards her to introduce himself. He was very tall with blond hair. ‘Captain Walters,’ he said and shook her hand. Pat looked into his pale green eyes.

  ‘I’ve heard so much about you and Captain Farrelly,’ he said, ‘and how you got this club up and running. Now, what can I do for you?’

  When Irene clocked in at Short Brothers that morning, she felt the worst of the morning sickness was behind her. She had managed to get through each day this week without being sick and this morning, at last, she had enjoyed a proper breakfast of egg, bacon and fried bread – the first time in months she had eaten her share of the ration.

  Macy was already standing up on the fuselage when Irene came on to the factory floor and she called down to her, ‘Hey, you’ve got colour in your cheeks for once.’

  ‘I know,’ shouted Irene, ‘I feel great!’ and she ran up the steps. As she neared the top she suddenly stopped. Macy must have seen the look on her face because she shouted, ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  Irene laughed. ‘Oh my goodness, the baby did a somersault. That’s the weirdest feeling ever!’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, but remind me not to run up any more ladders.’

  The morning wore on and the heat and the fumes built up in the carcass of the plane as Irene, Macy and the other riveters concentrated on combining the precision of their work with a sense of urgency. They had been told often enough that every plane built brought the end of the war closer. With half an hour to go to tea break, Irene became aware of the throbbing in her head, and minutes later her vision blurred. She pulled off her mask and called to Macy, ‘I need some fresh air,’ but she only made it as far as the top of the ladder before she dropped to her knees and vomited on to the floor far below.

  In the factory sick room the nurse, a fierce-looking woman with carrot-red hair, stood in front of Irene with her hands on her hips and delivered the nastiest, most unsympathetic medical advice Irene could ever have imagined.

  ‘Now, listen you here, you’re no use now in that job. You’re a liability, so you are. I’m sending you home right now and if you want to carry on working, show up in the morning and we’ll put you back on skivvying duties – down on the ground, sweeping up.’

  ‘But I’ll be all right. It’s just because I ate a fry for my breakfast and I haven’t been used to that lately.’

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, the cause of yer problem isn’t a fry! It’s the baby you’re expecting. Now, get yerself straight home and don’t forget to clock out.’

  ‘But it’s pay day. I need my wages.’

  The nurse shrugged her shoulders. ‘You can ask at the office if you like, but you won’t be paid for today, you know.’

  Irene knocked on the door of the wages office and went inside. There was a counter with a grille and beyond that she could see the office workers at their desks. Irene rang the bell on the counter and waited. Eventually, a smartly dressed woman appeared.

  Irene gave her name and explained, ‘The nurse says I’m to go home. Could I have my week’s wages, please?’

  ‘No wages are paid out until late in the afternoon, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, but I won’t be here then and I need—’

  ‘We haven’t even made up the pay packets yet.’

  ‘
But I’ve just been sick, you see. I’m expecting a baby and I need my money …’ Irene held back the tears.

  At that moment the door opened and Macy came in. She took one look at Irene’s face, drew herself up to her full height and turned to the woman. ‘I’ve been sent by Mr McVey, head of the Stirling team; he worried about one of his riveters.’ She nodded towards Irene. ‘He’s sending her home because she’s ill and he wants her to get better real quick. Told me to get on over here and make sure she gets her money straight off, including payment for the hours she’s worked this morning.’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t normally do that. The wages aren’t ready yet—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Mr McVey knows that. Says he’d be much obliged if you would make an exception. He wouldn’t want one of his best workers to lose out.’

  The woman hesitated.

  ‘He’d have come over himself,’ said Macy, ‘but you know how busy he is. He said you’d be just the person to sort it.’

  ‘Mr McVey said that?’

  ‘Oh yes. Do you want me to tell him you can’t sort it?’

  The woman thought a moment. ‘Wait here, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Ten minutes later Macy walked with Irene to the factory gates. ‘Make sure you rest up when you get home and maybe call the doctor.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Irene. ‘Can you believe Mr McVey? Sending you over like that?’

  Macy said nothing.

  Irene glanced at her. ‘No, you didn’t …’

  Macy laughed and put her arm round her friend. ‘Hey, aren’t you one of his best workers? Weren’t you entitled to the money you earned?’

  Irene threw back her head and laughed. ‘You’ve got some nerve, Macy!’

  Irene was foundered by the time she got home. The biting north wind went right through her coat and it felt like it was eating into her face as she walked from the bus stop to Joanmount Gardens. She came round the back of the house into the kitchen and went straight to the range to warm herself, but the fire was out and the room felt even colder than outside.

  ‘Mammy,’ she called.

  There was the sound of movement above her then footsteps on the stairs. Martha came into the kitchen and Irene shook her head in disbelief at the sight of her mother wearing her coat and scarf and carrying a bucket and scrubbing brush. ‘What are you doing?’

  Martha raised the bucket. ‘What does it look like? I’m cleaning the oilcloth upstairs.’

  ‘In your coat?’

  ‘Aye, it’s freezing in here.’

  ‘You can say that again. Why haven’t you lit the fire?’

  ‘Because I’m saving the wee bit of coal we’ve got left. I keep my coat on and do the housework to keep warm. Anyway, why are you here in the middle of the day?’

  ‘I was sick again and the nurse sent me home. I was all right, but she just wouldn’t listen.’

  Martha shook her head. ‘What have I been saying to you for weeks? You should never have gone to work there in the first place and you should certainly not be doing that riveting job. What kind of work is that for a woman and a pregnant one at that?’

  ‘Don’t start on that all again, Mammy. It’s a good job and I’m learning a trade. I can earn good money.’

  ‘And for how much longer, tell me that? I’ve said all along you shouldn’t be climbing ladders.’

  ‘They said I can go back to skivvying for a while.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘You don’t know? What sort of ridiculous nonsense is that?’ Martha shook her finger, her voice rising. ‘By God, Irene, the one thing you do know is that you’ll be a mother soon. That’ll be your job and God help you then!’

  ‘Aye, aye, I hear you.’ Irene hadn’t the strength to argue. All she wanted was her bed. She had barely the energy to climb the stairs, remove her shoes and creep under the eiderdown still wearing her coat.

  She must have slept a couple of hours and woke up warm – thanks to a hot water jar at her feet – and very hungry. She could hear voices downstairs and then Sheila’s laughter.

  Irene came into the warm kitchen and the smell of broth made her mouth water.

  ‘Ah, you’re up then,’ said Martha. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ It was as though their previous conversation had never happened. Irene sat at the table and listened to Sheila chatter on about some mishap at work and Martha filled a bowl with broth and put it in front of Irene along with a slice of plain bread.

  ‘Now then,’ said Martha. ‘I’ve been down to the chemist, told him how you were and he’s made up a tonic for you.’ She shook the bottle, poured a tablespoonful and held it out for Irene to swallow. ‘Good, you’ll have another one before you go to bed.’

  That evening, when the blackout curtains had been drawn, Martha settled down with an old copy of the People’s Friend that Betty had given her and left the girls to chatter about the officers’ mess dinner and show.

  ‘We were lucky to be chosen,’ said Peggy. ‘There are only six acts and the Golden Sisters and Sheila are two of them.’

  ‘Why would you think we might not have been chosen?’ asked Irene. ‘We were top of the bill last time.’

  ‘Plain as the nose on your face why Mr Goldstein might not want us there,’ said Pat.

  Her sisters turned to her and Pat looked at their blank faces in disbelief.

  ‘Because he doesn’t like Archie Dewer, of course.’

  ‘What’s Archie Dewer got to do with it?’

  ‘Who is Archie Dewer anyway?’ said Martha, suddenly interested.

  ‘Do you think he’s a bit of a ladies’ man, Pat?’ asked Irene.

  Pat bristled. ‘It’s not what I think; it’s what Mr Goldstein thinks. You know how he likes to look after his performers.’

  Peggy spoke up. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Mr Goldstein and Major Dewer had a perfectly friendly meeting at the shop to decide on the most suitable acts.’

  ‘Don’t be so naive, Peggy,’ said Pat. ‘The man has sugar daddy written all over him.’

  ‘What’s a sugar daddy?’ asked Sheila.

  ‘We’ll have none of that talk here,’ said Martha. ‘Now, who is this Archie Dewer?’

  ‘Ach, Mammy, he’s just the person in charge of concerts to entertain the troops,’ said Peggy. ‘He’s a major, very well-spoken, has connections in the London theatres. It’ll do us no harm to keep on the right side of him … professionally, I mean.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Martha. ‘Well-spoken or not, he sounds more like the sort of character you should give a wide berth to.’ And with that she went and fetched the tonic bottle. ‘Another dose of this, Irene, then away to your bed and we’ll see how you are in the morning.’

  ‘I think I’ll go up early as well,’ said Peggy.

  Upstairs, Irene lay awake thinking of Sandy and how much she missed him. She longed to feel his arms around her and his soft Scottish voice telling her that everything would be fine.

  In the next room Peggy sat up in bed, staring at the picture of her and Archie walking together along Royal Avenue – she looking up at him, he smiling down at her. What a handsome couple they made. Well worth the five shillings it cost her, she thought.

  After a week of skivvying duties and a whole bottle of tonic, Irene was still as exhausted as she had been when she was a riveter on twice the wage. The following Monday, she came down to breakfast and her mother took one look at her and sent her back to bed. ‘This has gone on long enough, my girl. It’s time to get the doctor out.’

  The doctor arrived late morning, immediately diagnosed anaemia and prescribed bed rest and iron tablets. Outside the bedroom door he explained to Martha, ‘We’ll see how she is in a week, but it’ll maybe be a month before she’s past the worst of it. She needs to get her strength back, so feed her up – plenty of liver, if you can get it, good for the blood.’

  Irene stood listening behind the door, then crept back to bed and turned her face to t
he wall. Her silent tears wet the pillow. She cried because she was tired and her clothes didn’t fit, but most of all she cried because she was useless. She’d lost the job she loved and couldn’t even do the one she hated. Then she remembered the concert on Saturday at the officers’ mess and let out a howl of frustration. She didn’t need bed rest, she needed her life back.

  Chapter 5

  The security around British Army Headquarters was tight. Goldstein and the performers had their signed passes ready, but it still took almost half an hour for the bus to clear the two checkpoints. Once through, they followed the drive and caught sight of the impressive Georgian mansion – not even the rows of Nissen huts covering the extensive lawns could detract from its size and grandeur.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Irene?’ asked Peggy. ‘We could have managed with Sheila singing your harmonies.’

  ‘I’m grand,’ said Irene. ‘I just felt so much better this afternoon and I know there hasn’t been time for Sheila to rehearse. It’s just easier for me to do it.’

  ‘You told Mammy you were coming with us?’

  ‘No, she’d already gone to the McCrackens, but she did say this morning how much better I looked.’ Irene gave a nervous laugh. ‘Must be all that liver.’

  The mess entrance was flanked by sentry boxes and in front of each stood a guardsman resplendent in greatcoat and bearskin, his rifle shouldered. Goldstein led the way and they passed into the entrance hall. The sight that met the performers was dazzling. The officers in their different dress uniforms – scarlet, dark blue, bottle green – filled the room with colour.

  Major Dewer had obviously been watching out for them and went quickly to Goldstein and shook his hand. ‘Good to see you again, sir,’ he said, and briefly glanced at the performers. ‘I hope you and your artistes will join us for a cocktail before dinner.’

  Peggy was surprised that Archie didn’t acknowledge her, but maybe as the organiser of the event he had a lot to do. Besides, she and her sisters and, of course, Macy were soon surrounded by several young officers who explained that they had been given special duty for the evening as escorts. They brought them cocktails and, when the gong sounded, each of the female performers went in to dinner on the arm of a handsome young guardsman.