A Song in my Heart Read online

  ‘Now, Sammy, just hold on a minute.’ Frankie’s mother was on her feet. ‘To my way of thinking, we should be thanking this woman.’

  ‘Ach, what do you know? A few sandwiches and party games for the kids – you’re easy pleased.’

  ‘I know that she’s the first one come to my door and offer to help my childer and, yes, I’m pleased about that.’ There were nods of agreement.

  ‘Look,’ said Pat, ‘I’ll make sure that the people in charge know how bad things are for you and if you let me know what you’re short of, I’ll try to get it for you. In the meantime, this Services Club has offered to do more to help your children and I’ve invited Miss Goulding, Headmistress at May Street National School, to come along to explain it to you.’

  Kathleen was nothing if not direct. She told them, ‘Parents have a decision to make every day – shall I send my children to school to receive an education? Or shall I let them roam the streets getting into mischief and growing up ignorant?’ She scanned the room, her face stern. ‘So your house has been bombed. Surely you don’t want to compound that misfortune by adding to it a child who can neither read, nor write, nor reckon up?’ The parents avoided her eye, looking at the floor or their hands. ‘No, of course you don’t.’ She went on, ‘Immediately after the Christmas holiday I will expect to see all children back at school and attending every day. I’m sure no other incentive is needed, but the American Forces and the Red Cross who run this club have said that during January they will provide free hot dinners at our school for your children.’

  Pat and Kathleen took the parents back to the ballroom just in time for the arrival of a special visitor. Captain Walters made a fine Santa Claus, if a little on the lean side, wearing a splendid red suit and carrying a huge sack. Every child was given a toy and a bar of chocolate to take home for Christmas Day.

  Pat looked at the children. If their smiling faces were anything to go by, the party had been a huge success, but it was only a drop in the ocean. Frankie and his friends would have a good Christmas, but would they go back to school?

  ‘They will,’ said Kathleen.

  ‘How can you know that?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Because we’ll make sure they do. I’ve an idea that might work. Look, can you come to my house the day after Boxing Day?’

  ‘Of course, but even if we persuade your pupils, what about all the other Frankies out there – the ones who don’t go to your school?’

  ‘One step at a time, Pat, one step at a time.’

  The rain was lashing the windows when Martha crept downstairs early on Christmas Day morning, and her heart sank at the thought of the miserable day that lay ahead. It was difficult enough to make a Christmas out of nothing with shortages and rationing, but it was the girls that worried her the most. Pat was missing Tony and Sheila was unhappy in her work. Then there was Irene struggling with the changes in her life while Peggy, contrary as ever, was elated one minute and snapping at everyone the next. Martha knew too that there was another reason they were so miserable – soon Mr Goldstein’s concerts would begin and this time there would be no Golden Sisters on the bill.

  Be thankful for small mercies, she told herself. Hadn’t Bridie McManus, her Dungannon friend, sent a goose to grace their table – not many of those to be found in Belfast – and she was pleased with the gifts she had made for the girls.

  Soon the goose was in the oven and a pan of porridge, enough for all of them, was bubbling gently on the range; and to Martha’s surprise, the girls came down for breakfast in good spirits. By the time they were sharing gifts, it was clear that everyone had made an effort with their presents and she was chiding herself for doubting the spirit of Christmas.

  Martha had made each daughter a pair of gloves with some fine two-ply wool she’d had since before the war. She wasn’t used to knitting on four needles, but soon got the hang of it. Then she had turned her hand to rag rugs made from cut up old clothes, one for each bedroom.

  The only awkward moment was when Pat opened a package that had come from America. Inside was a small box and a letter from Tony’s sister explaining that he had asked her to buy the present and send it to Pat. There were squeals of delight from Sheila and Peggy when Pat opened the box to reveal a gold bracelet. ‘I’ll give the Yanks one thing,’ said Peggy, ‘they know how to treat a girl!’ And Irene, who had just opened a card from Sandy with a postal order inside, looked wistfully at Pat’s beautiful present.

  Martha caught the look and said quickly, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, I’ve got something else for you, Irene,’ and she handed her a bulky, loosely-wrapped, present. Irene opened it and held up the garment inside. It was a dress, of sorts, large and olive green. ‘It’s a maternity dress,’ said Martha. ‘You’re going to need it as you get … bigger.’ Irene continued to stare at the present as Martha went on. ‘You recognise it, don’t you? It’s your dress, but I’ve stitched in an extra panel on each side to make it bigger and dyed it all the same colour.’

  Sheila started to giggle. ‘It looks like a tent, so it does.’

  Martha turned on her. ‘Don’t you be so cheeky.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mammy,’ said Irene. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Right then,’ said Martha. ‘Time for church, I think.’

  The girls groaned.

  ‘Ach, Mammy, it’s pouring rain,’ said Peggy.

  ‘No matter, it’s Christmas and we’re going to church.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Irene. ‘I’m not walking all that way.’

  Martha was about to insist, but thought better of it. ‘Well, maybe you could peel the vegetables while we’re out.’ But Irene wasn’t listening; she was still staring at the dress.

  Christmas dinner surpassed everyone’s expectations. For weeks beforehand Martha had worried that it would be a meagre affair, but the goose was delicious and the vegetables from their garden filled them up.

  ‘Are you going to finish that?’ Peggy pointed at the food left on Irene’s plate.

  ‘No, I’ve had enough. You can have it.’ She pushed the plate towards Peggy.

  ‘You will not,’ said Martha. ‘That’s good food, Irene, and you need to keep your strength up. I’ve told you before you’re eating for two now.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Nonsense, get it down you.’

  ‘I’ll be sick if I eat any more.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Martha snatched the plate and scraped the leftover food on to Peggy’s plate.

  Later, as they sat in the front room listening to the wireless, Martha slipped away and returned just in time for the King’s speech, with cups of tea and a Christmas cake.

  Pat laughed. ‘Where did you get that? I thought there was a war on.’

  ‘There is, but sure haven’t I been saving up the points coupons for some treats – the cake’s got dried fruit and treacle in it – and when the visitors come we’ll have a box of sugared almonds and glacé fruits to share.’ And the whoops of delight drowned out the striking of Big Ben on the wireless.

  As always, Betty and Jack from next door, and Mr Goldstein and his niece Esther came to share Christmas evening with Martha and her girls. It had been the pattern every Christmas since Martha had lost Robert. She well remembered the day in 1939 when Mr Goldstein had arrived unexpectedly and had brought with him his niece who, that very day, had arrived in Belfast after escaping Poland and the Nazis. Esther had been so distressed she couldn’t speak, and it was clear from her appearance that she had been through a terrible ordeal.

  ‘I don’t know how to help her,’ Goldstein had told Martha, ‘so I’ve brought her to you.’ And Martha had taken charge of the frightened, starving girl; run her a bath, found her clean clothes and persuaded her to eat.

  And now here she was tonight, the picture of health, standing in Martha’s sitting room playing Mozart on her violin accompanied by Peggy on the piano.

  When Esther had finished, Jack sang ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ with gusto. Then P
eggy called her sisters to the piano to sing a new song, ‘White Christmas’, that they had been practising just for the occasion and everyone enjoyed it so much that they sang it again and by the third rendition everyone was singing along. Martha watched Irene’s animated face as she sang; it was good to see her happy. If only she’d worn the maternity dress and not those awful jumble-sale trousers and a man’s shirt that had seen better days.

  Later, when the talk turned inevitably to war and the situation in North Africa, Martha slipped away to get the supper ready and by the time she returned with tea, sandwiches and cake, the topic of conversation had moved on.

  ‘The Golden Sisters are my best act,’ Goldstein was saying. ‘You can’t give up.’

  ‘But Irene can’t carry on.’ Pat shot a look at her sister, who sat motionless. ‘At least not for a while.’

  ‘There is a way,’ said Goldstein.

  ‘You mean Sheila? We’ve discussed that, but she has her own spot and we can’t expect her to sing in the Golden Sisters as well. And anyway, you said last time that the sound wasn’t right with Sheila singing.’

  ‘No, I am not suggesting Sheila should step in,’ said Goldstein, ‘I agree she should be a separate act. I have another idea …’ He paused and looked at the faces turned towards him.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ asked Peggy.

  ‘I will do what any director would do given these circumstances. I will hold an audition.’

  There was a rush of voices, loud and protesting.

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘It’ll never work.’

  Goldstein held up his hands. ‘You need to be professional about this. I am sure we can find someone who has the voice, looks and personality to become a Golden Sister.’ He addressed his words to Peggy and Pat. ‘It is the only solution if you want to carry on singing.’

  Martha glanced quickly at Irene and her heart sank. Minutes ago she had seen her daughter singing and looking happier than she had been in weeks and now her face was drained. ‘What do you think, Irene?’ she asked.

  Irene’s face was devoid of expression. ‘I don’t think anything. It’s got nothing to do with me any more.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to bed now.’

  Chapter 7

  It was still dark when Irene left her bed, got dressed and tiptoed out to retrieve the small case from the cupboard on the landing. She hesitated outside her mother’s bedroom door, listening. There was no sound. Had there been, she might have been tempted to explain what she was doing, but she knew it was better to slip away and avoid a good talking to that might have weakened her resolve and sent her back to bed.

  In the kitchen she took the note from her case and put it on the mantelpiece behind the clock. There were a few sandwiches and a piece of cake on a plate from supper and she wrapped them in a tea towel and put them in her handbag. Then she tied her headscarf in a turban, picked up her belongings and slipped out into the chill of the morning.

  She wasn’t sure whether there would be any buses running into town so she set off walking and hoped to flag one down if it passed her. What she did know was that a bus to Enniskillen would leave Belfast at nine. She had last made the journey in July to visit Sandy at the Castle Archdale RAF base.

  He wouldn’t be expecting her, of course, and the chances were she wouldn’t be able to stay on the base, but she would find lodgings. She needed to be with him now more than ever. There was nothing for her at home any more. She couldn’t face skivvying at the aircraft factory; her sisters had made it clear she couldn’t sing with them; and her mother had no patience with her at all. It was so clear in her mind now. Sandy had always wanted her by his side, but time after time she had been selfish, choosing to stay in Belfast for her work and her singing. Now they would be a family – just her, Sandy and the baby.

  The dawn crept slowly across the sky as she walked; there were few people on the road and no bus passed her. By the time she got to the station she was exhausted and greatly relieved to see the Enniskillen bus with its engine running. She climbed on board, glad to rest and, once the bus set off, she stretched her legs across the empty seat beside her and fell fast asleep …

  She was backstage in a dressing room and she heard the five-minute call for the Golden Sisters. Peggy and Pat had already gone to stand in the wings and she rushed to join them. In the corridor it was pitch black and she lost her bearings. She held her hands out in front of her as she walked until she felt the heavy stage curtain. She had only to find the opening, but the curtains were heavy and as she pulled at them they twisted and fell, enveloping her. Out of the dark a hand gripped her shoulder …

  ‘Wake up, miss.’ The conductor was shaking her gently. ‘That’s a quare sleep you’ve had.’

  Irene rubbed her eyes and looked out the window to see a street dusted with snow.

  ‘Are we in Enniskillen?’

  ‘Indeed we are.’

  ‘Do you know if there’s a bus would take me as far as Castle Archdale?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said the conductor, ‘I’ve only ever come this far, before going back to Belfast.’

  Irene heaved herself up and groaned as she felt a deep ache in her side; she knew at once that the baby had been lying awkwardly.

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’ He took her case.

  ‘Aye, just a bit of a cramp. I’ll ask someone about the bus.’

  ‘Well, you look after yourself now,’ said the conductor, ‘and watch these footpaths – they’re slippy.’

  There was no one about. The shops were shut and no doubt the good people of Enniskillen were at home by their fireside with their families. Irene pictured her mother with that hastily written note in her hand. She would have been so angry when she read it and full of harsh words about her eldest daughter’s stupidity. But now that several hours had passed, Irene knew she would be worried and desperate to know that she was safe. The tears pricked Irene’s eyes, but she had come so far that she had to carry on and she comforted herself with the thought that she would soon be with Sandy. She remembered the food in her bag and crossed the road to a little war memorial and sat down to eat and think. She wasn’t sure of the distance to Castle Archdale. The last time she had been there Sandy had met her off the bus and taken her to the base on his motorbike and it didn’t seem so far. There were still a good few hours of daylight left and, after her sleep on the bus, she felt she could walk there. With a bit of luck, someone with a car or, more likely in these parts, a horse and cart, might stop and give her a lift.

  Soon she had left the town behind and found herself on a road with hedgerows on either side, but no footpath, and every now and again she passed a row of cottages or a lane leading to a farm. At first she made good progress, but after an hour or so her legs began to tire and she was aware of the baby lying heavy. At last, she spotted a bus shelter in the distance and fixed her eyes on it, promising herself a rest when she got there. The first specks of snow were beginning to fall and by the time she reached the shelter they were sticking to the front of her coat. She set the case down inside and flexed her arm and fingers to relieve their aching stiffness, then carefully lowered herself on to it. The snowflakes were bigger now, swirling in front of her and covering the road. What was she doing in the middle of nowhere in such weather? She had never felt so alone. She closed her eyes and prayed, ‘Please God, let me get to Sandy.’ As if in reply, there was a low rumbling sound and she looked up to see a lorry coming down the road towards her. It was headed in the opposite direction, towards Enniskillen, but she struggled to her feet and waved and shouted. As it drew level she saw the RAF emblem on the door and the blue uniform of the driver as he beeped the horn and waved back at her. Then she was looking at the back of the lorry, fast disappearing into the snowy landscape.

  She pushed aside her disappointment and set out again with renewed hope. The lorry would certainly have come from the base so it couldn’t be that far off. The snow had eased off a little,
but it lay on the ground deep enough to seep into her shoes and soon her feet were like blocks of ice. A mile or two further on and she knew that her energy was draining away; just putting one foot in front of the other took so much effort. In the gathering darkness she came to a crossroads with an old stone marker. Enniskillen, back the way she came, four miles. Straight ahead Castle Archdale – no, it couldn’t be – six miles!

  She’d been so stupid and angry about everything. All she had thought of was running away from her mother with all her interfering and her sisters who wouldn’t let her sing. Now look where that had got her. Soon it would be dark and no one would be looking for her, no one knew where she was. And in the morning, when it was too late, they would find her …

  She sat once more on her case and tried to make her brain work, but her eyelids were closing and she felt herself drifting. Suddenly the baby kicked out and jolted her awake. Her mind cleared and she knew that she must not fall asleep. She needed to get on her feet and walk, for surely somewhere along this road there must be a village or even a solitary house where she could ask for shelter.

  She set off again, determined not to give in and, to keep her mind focused, she sang under her breath, ‘Come on and hear, Come on and hear, Alexander’s ragtime band.’ Then after that, song after song from the Golden Sisters repertoire, and as she sang she recalled the excitement on stage, the sound of applause, and slowly some of the energy of performing found its way into her weary legs and her frozen feet.

  She had no idea how far she had walked when she became aware of a noise far behind her. It sounded almost musical and coming closer. Voices carried on the still air. Closer still and she half-imagined the haunting melody of ‘Silent Night’. Then she heard the drone of an engine and she turned to see a lorry coming up behind her. As it slowed, her heart leapt to see on the door the familiar red, white and blue circles of the RAF.

  ‘Hello there, love.’ An English accent. ‘What you doing out in this weather?’