Martha's Girls (15 page)

She worked her way up the length of the plane. The shavins were slivers of metal trimmed from the welded joints that collected at the feet of the workers. Some of the men, seeing a new face, stopped for a moment asked her name, or tried a bit of banter. Her bag was about half full when she noticed a piece of metal caught in the space between two spars. She reached for it and pulled. It was stuck fast and her hand slid up the length of the sharp metal. She let out a cry and watched as one red globule of blood after another appeared in a line across her palm. She felt a lightness in her head and sat down quickly cradling her hand in her lap. The man nearest to her called for a first aid kit and seconds later one appeared.

‘Looks like a clean cut; not so deep. I don’t think you’ve damaged anything.’ He raised her hand, placed a pad of cotton wool over the wound then bandaged it tightly. All the time he spoke to her in a soft voice. ‘Don’t worry, love. You’ll be all right. It’s Irene, isn’t it?’ She nodded. ‘We’ll need to take you to the first aid post. There’s a nurse there will sort you out.’ He got her up on her feet. ‘You can lean on me.’ But before her head reached his shoulder, black spots appeared before her eyes and her knees buckled.

‘Irene … Irene … listen I’m going to carry you down. Just stay completely still.’ And with that he swung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. She closed her eyes tightly and endured the weird sensation of descending head first, holding her hand in the air, bouncing all the way. Back on the ground he set her upright and Irene opened her eyes to see the foreman scowling at her.

‘Well we didn’t get much work out of you the day, did we?’

Then Myrtle arrived. ‘My God, Irene, what happened?’

‘The shavins, Myrtle, the bloody shavins!’ she replied.

Chapter 10

‘You’ll have to tell Mammy now, Irene.’

‘No, why should I?’

‘Don’t be daft. You’ve a cut hand that’s still dripping blood, for one. And number two, you’ve no wages coming for a fortnight.’

Irene had met Pat as she got off the bus outside Deerpark post office to walk home with her as though they’d been to work together. If she had expected some sympathy from Pat as a result of her injury, she was mistaken.

‘I’m going to say I cut it on a packing case; you know how Mr Briggs sometimes asks us to unpack deliveries of paint when he can’t be bothered.’

‘Irene, I’m not lying to Mammy! And even if she believes you about the hand, what idea have you to explain the lack of wages? Tell me that!’

‘I don’t know.’ Irene was close to tears. It had been an awful day and in a few minutes it could get a great deal worse.

The smell of onions frying greeted them as they came through the back door. Martha was removing a piece of raw liver from a shallow dish of pink milk. She didn’t look up, intent as she was on transferring it to the pan without it dripping. Sheila was setting the table and greeted them excitedly.

‘Irene, you’ll never guess what! Wait here.’ She threw the cutlery in a heap and ran into the sitting room, returning in seconds with a parcel. ‘Your present from India. It must be.’ She thrust it into Irene’s hands. ‘Open it, open it!’

The brown paper was thick and crumpled as though it had been handled many times. The string was rough and fraying, held together with misshapen blobs of sealing wax at its knots. Irene held it, as if the parcel itself was the gift to be explored and marvelled at. And indeed it was, for she had never before received a parcel of her own. But there, as if to prove its validity, was her name in capitals across the brown paper, weaving in and out of the string.

Martha broke the silence. ‘What have you done to your hand?’

‘Oh … I don’t know … I think I cut it at work emptying some packing cases.’

‘What do you mean ‘you think’? Don’t you know what happened?’ Irene had turned away and was trying to open the parcel.

‘Pat, did you see what happened to her hand?’

A moment’s hesitation. ‘No. No, I didn’t. I wasn’t there.’

‘Come on, Irene,’ screamed Sheila. ‘Open it. Let’s see what’s in it!’

‘Don’t do that!’ shouted Martha, momentarily distracted by the sound of ripping. ‘We’ll need to save the paper and string.’ She took the parcel from Irene and carefully worked the knots loose, only handing it back for the paper to be removed to reveal the gift. The moment had passed, the hand forgotten and Irene breathed a sigh of relief.

First there was the colour which drew gasps. Blazing like an orange split open to glisten in bright sunlight. Irene touched it. ‘It’s so soft. What is it, silk?’

‘Let me feel,’ said Martha. ‘Aye, it’s silk all right. Just like your Aunt Anna’s favourite scarf, only this is finer, softer.’

‘Indian silk, then,’ said Pat, as though she knew.

Irene stood up with the end of the silk in her hands and walked backwards as Martha began to unwind the bolt of cloth revealing a border of silver embroidery. Irene reached the end of the room and Pat took up the cloth and followed in Irene’s footsteps. Meanwhile Irene walked round to the far side of the table. Sheila took up the next unwinding following Pat, who followed Irene as she circled the table. Eventually all the silk was revealed winding from sister to sister like a broad, bright ribbon around the Belfast kitchen; an exotic visitor, brightening their lives. No one spoke. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. The liver sizzled gently in the pan.

The back door opened and Peggy came wearily into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on? What’s all this?’ A wave at the silk.

‘It’s Irene’s present from India,’ Sheila said excitedly.

‘Oh, very nice, I’m sure,’ said Peggy making her way around the outside of the silk circle.

‘Is that all you can say?’ asked Sheila.

‘No it’s not,’ said Peggy. ‘I’d also like to say. What on earth is it? And where’s my tea?’

The spell had been broken. Martha turned her attention to the liver. ‘Right let’s get all this put away and the table set. Tea’ll be ready in five minutes.’

Around the table, talk of the silk continued. ‘What will you do with it, Irene?’ asked Pat.

‘I don’t know. Keep it, I suppose, and look at it now and again.’

‘It’s a lovely thing right enough, but neither use nor ornament, if you ask me,’ said Martha.

‘I wonder what he thought you’d do with it,’ said Sheila. It was the first time the sender had been mentioned.

Peggy said bluntly, ‘I wonder why he sent it. I mean, to someone he only met for a few hours.’ All eyes turned to Irene. Only she could answer that. The truth was she was as mystified as the rest them. She’d been surprised when he mentioned a gift in his letter and now that she had received it … What she did know that they didn’t, was that the gift was not all that had been in the wrapping paper. In her pocket was an envelope that had been folded into the first section she unwrapped. She had put it away quickly when all eyes were on the silk and was saving it to read when she was alone.

Pat leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘I’ve a notion what it is.’ They stared at her. ‘What it’s used for, I mean.’ They waited. ‘In India that is …’

Sheila could contain herself no longer. ‘What, Pat. What is it?’

But she would only say, ‘After we’ve washed the dishes, we’ll have a little experiment.’

Pat took charge of the second unwinding of the silk. ‘Draw the curtains, Sheila. Now, Irene, move away from the fire and you’d best take your jumper off.’ Then she took up the first yard’s worth and, wrapping it in half lengthwise, she draped it across Irene’s left shoulder. ‘Right Sheila, you get hold of the rest of the material and follow me, feeding it out as I need it.’ Pat proceeded to walk clockwise round Irene winding the silk as she went until Irene was wrapped like an Egyptian mummy in orange and silver.

‘Now this is the tricky bit,’ said Pat. ‘There’s something that happens with the arm …’ She hung the remaining material over the crook of Irene’s arm. ‘There you are! I think it’s called a sari. Now you’re dressed like an Indian woman.’

‘Not quite,’ said Peggy, ‘Get me some warm water in a bowl, Sheila.’ Peggy took a comb from her bag and dipped it in the water, smoothing down and slicking back Irene’s dark hair. Then she pulled it into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and fastened it with some clips.

‘Well, I never saw the like!’ said Martha.

‘How did you know what it was?’ asked Sheila.

‘Saw it in a film once,’ said Pat.

‘‘Elephant Boy’,’ added Peggy.

‘I’m going upstairs to look at myself in the mirror,’ said Irene. ‘That’s if I can climb the stairs.’

‘Then we’ll need to get rehearsing,’ said Peggy pulling out the piano stool. ‘It’s less than two weeks to the concert, don’t forget.’

Upstairs, Irene carefully removed the sari and folded it in yard lengths, then held it to her face and breathed deeply. When the parcel was first opened she’d been aware of a faint smell. None of the others appeared to notice, but now it seemed the warmth of her body had drawn out a lovely but unfamiliar scent, one that would forever remind her of her silk sari, a faraway land and an airman whose face she could not quite bring to mind.

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door and Sheila came in.

‘Peggy says to hurry up.’

‘Well that’s rich coming from her!’

‘And I’ve got this for you.’ Sheila held out an envelope and Irene immediately recognised the Free State stamp. ‘I answered the door to the postman when he delivered the sari and he gave me this as well. I thought … I don’t know … maybe you might not want Mammy to see it.’

‘Will you two get a move on!’ Peggy shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

Irene took the letter. ‘Thanks, Sheila. You did the right thing.’

They rehearsed the three songs ‘Stormy Weather’, ‘Pick Yourself Up’ and ‘I’ll Take Romance’. Then Peggy insisted they try a new song. Goldstein had given her the sheet music and she’d practised it a few times in the shop when there were no customers. ‘Tuxedo Junction’ was a simple enough song and Peggy was comfortable playing it. Pat successfully followed the music, but it was difficult to work out the three part harmony. Martha listened to several attempts, but it was clear to her that it didn’t work. It was getting late. Maybe tomorrow it would come.

In the room she shared with Pat, Irene waited until her sister had fallen asleep then crept down stairs in her dressing gown, the two letters in her pocket. Which to read first? Sean’s letter, for it must surely be from him − she knew no one else over the border − or Sandy’s letter accompanying the beautiful sari? Sean’s was probably the most urgent and short. Sandy’s was to be savoured like his gift. She ripped open the envelope, inside was a hastily scribbled note.
Tell Theresa I’m fine. I’m on the hill overlooking the Atlantic as I write this. She’ll know the place. Tell her not to write. It’s better that way.

Simple then, she had only to memorise the message and find Theresa in a bar on Northumberland Street, maybe tomorrow night after work. Sandy’s letter was longer; the script was carefully formed as though this was a fair copy and, like his speech, there were no wasted words.

Dear Irene,

I wanted to send you a gift that would be like sending a piece of India…

*

‘Well, I didn’t expect to see you the day, Missy.’ The foreman was standing at the entrance to hangar four watching the workers arrive. ‘Made of sterner stuff than I gave you credit for.’

‘The nurse said yesterday I’d be all right to work, but I’ve to see her at tea break and she’ll have a look at my hand and maybe put another bandage on it.’ Irene knew if she hadn’t shown up for work today she’d not even get to complete the month’s trial she’d been promised and she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that her fingers were stiff and aching. Luckily the cut was on her left hand so she was able to manage the rivets with her right. The sweeping was a bit more difficult, but she gritted her teeth and got it done. Later, when she collected the shavins, the men teased her a little.

‘Have ye rung fer the ambulance yet, Dave?’

‘He’s been on standby all mornin’, Joe.’

‘Hey, Dave, why’re they called bloody shavins?’

‘Cause that’s their colour when some people’s finished with ‘em.’

Irene sought out her rescuer who was welding at the far end of the plane. ‘Hello,’ she said.

He turned off the blow torch. ‘Hello. How’s the hand?’

Irene showed her bandage. ‘Still there I think.’

He nodded towards the cabin door. ‘You can manage the ladders then?’

‘Oh aye, couldn’t have done yesterday, mind you, so thanks for what you did; carrying me down.’

‘Ach, that’s all right. It’s not the first time I’ve carried someone down a ladder, I used to be a fireman, but you were one of the lighter ones!’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Robert.’

She shook it. ‘I’m Irene.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘How?’

‘Myrtle.’

Irene laughed. ‘Of course, everyone knows Myrtle.’

‘You’re new on hangar four then?’

‘I’m new to Shorts. They’ve given me a month’s trial.’

‘So how’s it goin’ so far?’

‘Oh great, yesterday was my first day. I did two hours work, gave cheek to the foreman and went home two hours early with a cut hand that stopped all work in hangar four, while the workers had a good laugh watching me being carried head first down a ladder!’

Robert threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, sounds like a good start to me!’

‘I’d better get on with my work, if I’m to last the day. Thanks again.’

‘Anytime, you need a fireman’s lift …’

The Short and Harland nurse was a large bustling no-nonsense woman. Her green serge uniform was stretched tightly across her ample bust and the white apron, which strained with every movement, was held in place with a large safety pin on one corner and an upside-down watch in the other.

‘There’s a lot of dried blood under this bandage, but it’ll need to come off. We’ll try it the easy way first.’ She filled a basin with hot water and nodded in its direction. Irene gingerly put her fingers in and quickly withdrew them.

‘Good heavens, what’s the matter with you, girl. Get it in there!’ and she plunged Irene’s hand into the boiling hot water and held it there. Irene cried out in pain and the basin turned red. After a minute the nurse withdrew Irene’s hand. It was clear that most of the bandage had loosened, but in one place it was still clinging. In one swift movement the nurse ripped the rest of it off and Irene screamed again. It was even worse when the nurse wiped it with iodine, before applying a clean dressing.