Martha's Girls (20 page)

Peggy was the first to speak. ‘What have you done to your hair?’

‘Cut it.’

‘But why?’ asked Pat. ‘You had lovely hair.’

‘Just cut it.’

Martha was removing her coat as one would for a child: lifting each arm upright; pulling the sleeve off; then peeling it from her shoulders. Sheila didn’t help; didn’t seem to notice.

‘Never mind it’ll soon grow again,’ said Irene.

‘Course it will,’ said Martha, ‘and in the mean time it shows off your lovely face.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us you were going to do it?’ Peggy was never one to understand the value of silence. ‘We could have persuaded you—’

‘That’s enough now, all of you.’ Martha took control. ‘I think Sheila looks really tired. You’d best get off to bed, love. Have a good night’s sleep. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’ Martha led her youngest daughter away from all the questions upstairs to bed. Downstairs the speculation continued; each sister trying to imagine the circumstances in which they would part with their own long hair and all agreeing the chances of them ever doing so were remote. Upstairs, it seemed Sheila had just enough strength to reach her bed and close her eyes, but moments later as Martha was hanging up her coat, she spoke.

‘In my coat pocket, Mammy, there’s money. Four pounds they gave me for my hair … said it was thick and strong. And five shillings from the McCrackens; a Christmas bonus, John said, and Aggie gave me the biscuits.’

Martha stroked her daughter’s shorn head. ‘Sssh, go to sleep now. We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

‘I’m sorry it’s not quite enough to pay the bill, Mammy. But it’ll help won’t it?’

‘Yes Sheila, it’s a big help.’

‘And we won’t tell Irene, will we?’

‘No love, Irene will never know.’

Chapter 13

Martha did not begrudge a penny of the money she paid over the counter at the offices of the Belfast City Health Board. Irene had been a whisper from death and although sound reasoning would have it that the penicillin had caught her in time, Martha didn’t doubt that God had heard her in St Peter’s for, after all, what was penicillin, but God’s latest work in the field of medicine.

One debt paid; two more to go.

Smithfield Market covered half an acre in the city centre, tucked away behind the pretentious shops that lined the best streets, like some wide-boy who might not be entirely honest in the eyes of the law, but who never knowingly cheated a poor man in search of a bargain. She had memorised the name on Irene’s pawn ticket, assuming she might have to ask directions but, as luck would have it, she emerged from Kelly’s entry and within yards picked out the three gold balls high above the shoppers’ heads with the name ‘Blumfeld’ swinging underneath.

Coming in from the chill December wind, the shop was a warm fug of dusty air and the unmistakable smell of paraffin. In front of Martha was a low wooden counter and, stretching up from it towards the roof, a strong metal grill. Beyond this were racks and racks of clothing and shelves piled high with an example of every possession known to be worth a few shillings to the desperate. The man behind the counter was as exotic to Martha as the inside of his shop. His complexion was sallow emphasising the whiteness of his teeth as he smiled a welcome.

‘Good day to you, missus, how may I help you?’ He turned slightly and swept his hand to indicate all the goods in his keeping. Martha noted the small black cap fastened to the back of his head and the strings hanging below his tight waistcoat. ‘Are you here to pawn, redeem or to buy?’

‘Perhaps all three, depending on the arrangement we come to,’ said Martha.

When she emerged from the pawn shop twenty minutes later, Martha’s opinion of Jewish businessmen, already strong as a result of her dealings with Goldstein, had been further enhanced by the honesty and charm of Jakob Blumfeld. She was delighted to have, safe in her bag: a large parcel; a very small parcel; a new pawn ticket and in her mind the thought that two more debts had been repaid.

From Smithfield she made her way to St George’s Market, a large red brick building with a corrugated iron roof, where the sound of noisy Christmas bargain hunters and pushy stallholders shouting their wares soared into the rafters to join the squawking and chirping of the birds who made their home there. Martha held her shopping bag tight and her purse even tighter not daring to open it to find the list she had made. No matter, she could remember everything on it. From a fruit stall she bought four oranges and half a pound of mixed nuts. The box of dates with the lid showing a caravan of camels crossing the desert was more expensive than last year, but at sixpence was still worth the treat.

She already had a present for each daughter. At Easter time she had seen a new modern pattern for a jumper in the wool shop and started knitting right away. The lady who owned the shop had laid aside the wool, a different colour for each girl, and Martha had paid a little each week towards the cost. The jumpers had been finished for over a month, but she had still to add three small buttons across each shoulder. At the haberdashery stall the range of buttons threatened to overwhelm her. How to choose? In the end she decided on small clear ones with a pattern like cut glass. Three buttons per daughter, times four daughters made twelve buttons, at tuppence a button, came to two shillings.

There was a long queue at the butchers. She had never bought from the market before, always preferring Carson’s closer to home, but lately his prices had risen steadily. Martha watched as each customer on reaching the counter entered into a discussion, then some kind of haggling, before meat was finally produced from under the counter and quickly parcelled up.

‘Hello, Mrs. Goulding. How’re ye keepin’?’ It was the mother of Thelma, Peggy’s cinema pal.

‘Not too bad, Mrs Boyd, and yourself?’

‘I’ll be a lot better when I get all this Christmas palaver over with, I can tell ye!’ She set her baskets down either side of her and flexed her fingers. ‘Them begs is cuttin’ in tae me, so they are.’

‘Have you got all your messages then?’

‘Aye, just got a turkey. Have ye seen the price of them? Scandalous it is! All ye get from them is, “There’s a war on, what do ye expect!” Says I, “A war, my backside, youse uns is just profiteerin”.’

‘Why, how much are they charging?’

‘Sure didn’t he want ten bob for a scrawny wee criter! I told him te catch himself on, turned on me heel an’ left.’

‘So where did you get your turkey then?’

Mrs Boyd leaned in close. ‘There’s a farmer from Knocknagoney, over in the left hand corner there, will sell ye one for five bob. Take a quick look in me bag and ye’ll see why.’

Martha caught a handle and leaned over to peer inside. There was a loud shriek from the bag, which shook furiously and an ugly scaly head with yellow eyes and a sharp beak came within inches of Martha’s face. In the time it took her to shriek as loud and as surprised as the turkey, Mrs Boyd had clamped the bag shut.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph what are you doing with a live turkey?’

‘I’m takin’ it home for Christmas dinner!’

Quick as a flash a man in the queue shouted, ‘Aye give it a party hat and a plate of sprouts. It’ll be no uglier than the rest a your family!’

‘Are you going to kill it?’ asked Martha.

‘Well, I’ve not bought it for its company! Sure I grew up on a farm; saw me Da ring the neck of fowl manys a time. Nothin’ to it.’ With that, she gathered up her belongings, living and dead, and waved her hand. ‘All the best to you, Mrs Goulding.’

‘The same to you, Mrs Boyd.’

Eventually Martha reached the front of the butcher’s queue. ‘I’ve not a lot left, missus. I could let you have a nice ox tongue and half a pound of beef sausages, how’s that?’

Ox tongue! It was years since Martha had cooked a fresh ox tongue, not since the early thirties when times were really hard. Still it was a tasty dish hot and delicious cold on sandwiches. She could do a lot worse. ‘I’ll take both,’ she said.

The farmer from Knocknagoney was packing up when she got to his stall.

‘Have you a fowl left at all?’ asked Martha.

‘I have, missus, this criter here is no great size, but I’ll vouch for his meat, moist and tasty for sure. You can have it for five shillings if you’ve a mind to take him as he is.’ He spat on his hand and held it out, a farmer’s bargain, and Martha shook his hand on it then watched with some trepidation as he trussed its legs and taped its beak and she prayed both would last the bus journey home.

An ox tongue was a disgusting article raw, but the knowledge of how to disguise its shape and cook it to perfection would turn it into a rare delicacy. She’d make sure the girls didn’t see it until it was cooked. Over a foot long and unmistakably a tongue from its rasping pointed tip to its ugly root where it had been anchored to the gullet. First, it must be scalded with boiling water and skinned, ready to roll it into a circle like a Catherine wheel, then tied tightly with string before plunging it in a large pan of boiling salted water to simmer for an hour. Finally, Martha set it on a plate covered it with a tea towel and laid her heavy cast iron on top to press it. She was thankful all this was accomplished long before the girls were due home. Time enough to have a cup of tea and a think about the main course she’d left gobbling to itself in the bath.

Sheila’s face at the window was a shock. Martha had completely forgotten about her hair, or lack of it.

‘How was it at the McCracken’s?’

‘Very busy again, we ran out of sprouts, but John told everyone parsnips were great with a Christmas dinner, especially if you roasted them with the potatoes. I’ve brought some home so we can try them.’ She put a string bag full of fat white parsnips on the draining board. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘I went shopping at St George’s Market, then came home and cooked some pressed tongue and made a Madeira cake. I thought we could ice that instead of the Christmas cake. There’s tea in the pot if you want some.’

Sheila busied herself getting some tea. ‘I could ice the cake for you if you like.’

‘That’d be great and while you’re doing that, I could try making a Christmas pudding. I remember a recipe of my mother’s that doesn’t need so many ingredients and steams in half the time.’

The two set to work, each concentrating on their chosen task. Outside the light began to fade and neither heard the sound of the gate rattle or the back door open. Suddenly there was a piercing scream from the bathroom, followed by a startled cry from Sheila as the she dropped the pallet knife she was holding. By the time it hit the floor Martha was out of the kitchen and rattling the bathroom door.

‘Peggy, Peggy are you all right?’

Another shriek less startled than terrified this time.

‘Peggy, open the door! Open the door!’ Martha rattled the doorknob.

Now Sheila was at her side.

‘What’s happened? Is Peggy all right?’

‘Of course she is. She’s just seen the turkey that’s all.’

‘What turkey?’

‘Peggy, open this door!’ Martha shouted with all the authority she could muster.

There was the rattling of the key and another scream as Peggy squeezed herself through the narrowest of openings and slammed the door behind her.

‘Calm down, Peggy. It’s just a turkey. Sure it’s all tied up. It can’t hurt you.’

Peggy had blanched as white as the turkey’s breast feathers; her eyes were wide with fright. ‘I needed to go to the toilet. Switched on the light and it came at me. Its wings were flapping trying to get out of the bath; its claws scrabbling over the side; coming straight for me!’

Sheila gasped. ‘How’d a turkey get in our bathroom?’

Martha tried to calm her hysterical daughters. ‘It’s our dinner, for tomorrow.’

‘What!’ Sheila and Peggy looked at her as if she was a mad woman and indeed Martha was beginning to think that sometime in the afternoon in St George’s Market she must surely have taken leave of her senses.

‘Oh, Lord help us!’ she whispered and covered her face with her hands. ‘What have I done? Christmas Eve and a Knocknagoney turkey has taken over our bathroom and I’m damned if I’m the one to get him out!’ She took her hands away and bit her lip just a little and smiled, slowly at first, looking from one girl’s face to the next. Sheila smiled too, then Peggy, in spite of the fright she’d had. They turned their backs on the bathroom door went back into the kitchen, sat at the table and looked at one another smiling and laughing a little, then laughing a lot. And when they stopped, it only took one of them to look in the direction of the bathroom for the laughter to start again. They were still sitting there when Pat and Irene came through the back door and fortunately Martha had the presence of mind to shout out, ‘Don’t go in the bathroom!’

‘There’s nothing else for it,’ declared Martha. ‘We just have to wait until Jack and Betty come back. They’ve probably nipped out for a few things. They’ll be home for their tea.’

‘But Mammy, I don’t think I can wait ‘til then. I need to go now!’ said Peggy.

‘She’s not the only one,’ added Irene. ‘I haven’t been to the toilet since lunchtime.’

‘What I don’t understand is why you think Jack Harper can help,’ said Pat.

Martha spoke confidently. ‘Sure doesn’t the man have a way with birds?’ Her daughters stared at her in disbelief.

‘Mammy, Jack keeps budgies! He’s never wrestled an eight pound turkey on Christmas Eve!’

And then they were laughing again, except Peggy who stood up, crossed her legs and howled at the floor, ‘Oh! Don’t make me laugh! Please don’t make me laugh!’

At that moment there was a knock at the front door. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Pat.

‘And if it’s Jack Harper tell him he’ll need a large piece of cuttlefish and a very strong swing,’ shouted Irene. Pat left them shrieking and returned moments later to hear Irene warming to her theme by painting a picture of the turkey flying around the Harper’s sitting room and landing on Betty’s head. It was a few moments before anyone noticed Pat had returned and behind her, smiling broadly, stood Harry Ferguson.

‘Hello Peggy. Looks like I’ve arrived in time for a good laugh.’ All eyes turned towards him, faces full of laughter smiled a welcome. Couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried, he thought. He reached across the table and held out his hand to Martha. ‘I’m guessing you’re Mrs Goulding, but I may be wrong.’ He smiled warmly and made a point of looking round the daughters then went on. ‘I’m Harry Ferguson, a friend of Peggy’s.’

Martha stood up, the smile still playing on her lips. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Ferguson, you’ve arrived at a very strange time.’ Harry raised an eyebrow.

‘Why don’t we go into the sitting room and we’ll tell you all about it.’

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