Martha's Girls (37 page)

‘You know.’ Irene blushed. ‘He’s very nice and …’

‘And what, Irene?’

‘He asked me to marry him.’

‘What!’ screamed Myrtle. People at the tables nearby turned to look at them.

Irene lowered her voice ‘He asked me to marry him and …’

‘And what?’

‘… and he’s coming to my house on Saturday.’

‘You think he’s expecting you to give him an answer?’

‘Probably. Oh Myrtle, he is so nice.’

‘But you don’t know him.’

‘I do – a bit.’

‘But you’ve only spent a few hours with him.’

‘And there’s the letters he sent me from India.’

‘Look, take my advice, see how you feel on Saturday in the cold light of day. Don’t rush into anything.’

‘I could give you the same advice about Sammy!’

*

It was Friday night before Irene plucked up the courage to tell everyone that Sandy would be coming to visit the following day. They were sitting around the table and the chatter fell silent when Martha placed the bowl of potatoes in their skins on the table. Irene cleared her throat and said quietly, ‘There’s someone coming to see me tomorrow.’ Something in her tone caused them simultaneously to stop peeling and look at her. ‘It’s Sandy, you know the one who—’

‘Wrote to you from India,’ said Sheila.

‘Took you up the Cave Hill,’ said Peggy.

‘Worked the lights at Aldergrove,’ said Pat.

‘What’s he coming here for?’ asked Martha.

‘He’s probably going to take me out somewhere, but I thought you’d like to meet him?’

‘Will he be here for his tea?’

‘Maybe … probably … Oh I don’t know!’

*

Every night since she and Sandy had stood under the wings of the Hurricane, Irene had been awake into the early hours searching for an answer. Sometimes she would see how ridiculous it was to marry someone she hardly knew and of course she must say no. Then the alternative answer would present itself with as much force and she would remember how he kissed her. Now it was Saturday and soon Sandy would be on his way. She panicked and thought of going back to bed, pulling the covers over her head and telling her mother to say there was no one called Irene Goulding living here.

She was watching from the front bedroom when she heard the faint roar coming up the Oldpark Road. Louder and louder, then a softer purring into Joanmount Gardens and finally a whine as it slowed outside the window. She was out the front door before he had climbed off the bike. She saw at once two things, how nervous he was and how handsome.

Martha was out the back hanging out the washing. There was a stiff breeze, good drying weather. She was just using the clothes prop to hoist the underwear of five women into the air when Irene came into the garden on the arm of a handsome airman.

‘Mammy, this is Sandy, remember, I told you he was coming today?’

Martha wiped her damp hands on her apron and shook his outstretched hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said. She had never seen the RAF uniform up close before and it instantly marked him out as different. ‘Was that a motorbike I heard?’ Sandy nodded. ‘Why don’t you bring it round the back before it’s covered in wee boys?’

As Sandy left to get the bike, Irene heard a suppressed giggle and looked up to see her sisters hanging out of the bedroom window. ‘Why don’t you come down and meet him properly,’ she shouted.

From the saddlebag of his bike Sandy produced some lemonade and they went inside. As he was introduced to each sister he gave a little smile and shook her hand repeating her name as if committing it and her face to memory. Sheila fetched some glasses and Sandy poured them all a drink.

‘Did you enjoy the concert?’ asked Pat.

‘Yes, I did … you were very good.’

‘And you did the lighting?’ said Peggy.

‘Brian and me, aye yes.’

They sipped the lemonade.

‘Where are you from, Sandy? You’ve a bit of an accent, so you have,’ asked Martha. Irene shifted in her seat. Her mother was trying to find out ‘what manner of man he was’, as she would put it.

‘I’m from the north east of Scotland, a wee fishing town on the coast.’

‘Near Edinburgh?’

‘Och, no it’s a long way from there, closer to Aberdeen.’

‘You’ve family there then?’

‘Aye I have, most of them trawler men; fishing, you ken, in the North Sea.’

‘So why aren’t you in the Navy then?’ interrupted Sheila.

He laughed. ‘Because I get seasick, always have since I was a boy.’

‘So you took to the air instead,’ said Pat.

‘Aye, then they sent me to India on a boat. I was at sea for six months.’

‘And you got over your sea sickness?’

‘No!’ He laughed again. ‘I was ill the whole time and all the way back too.’

*

Later Irene took him for a walk up Buttermilk Loney and as they left the house he took her hand. ‘I like your family,’ he said.

‘They like you too.’

‘Can you tell?’

‘Oh yes, they wouldn’t have invited you to stay for your tea if they didn’t.’

There were primroses pale as churned butter in the hedgerows and somewhere in the hill above them a cuckoo called. They walked a while in silence. The question hung between them. The lane steepened and narrowed until they came to a five bar gate. They leant against it looking across the rough pasture towards Napoleon’s nose.

‘Irene …’

‘Yes.’

‘What I asked you the other night …’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you thought about it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you decided?’

‘Yes.’

Sandy stood in front of her and rearranged a strand of hair that had blown across her face. ‘Well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does that mean—’

‘Yes … yes I will marry you!’

He took a small velvet drawstring bag from his pocket, undid it and shook its contents into his hand. It was a gold ring with a milky grey stone. He took her hand and placed it on her finger. ‘It’s a moonstone from India. I chose it for you the day I bought the sari.’

She looked into his eyes and saw such an expression of love. ‘But we’d only met the once at Stranraer for a couple of hours.’

‘It was long enough,’ he said.

*

Martha was not altogether surprised when the two of them returned to the house for tea and Sandy asked shyly if he could have a word with her in the front room. She’d seen the way Irene looked at him, a softness around her eyes, and her voice too was different when she spoke to him. She’d been younger than Irene herself when Robert had proposed. What would she have done if someone had stood in their way? Sometimes you have to trust your instincts, she told herself, and instinctively she knew that Sandy was an honest and decent young man.

Even so, she was shocked when they told her they wanted to be married as soon as possible. Sandy knew his work would not be completed at Aldergrove until the end of April, but after that he could be sent to any RAF base in the country. He had already asked about a two day pass, hoping Irene would accept his proposal. They had less than a month to arrange an Easter wedding.

Chapter 26

William Kennedy was incandescent with rage. He stormed out of the bomb shelter in Donegall Place leaving the rest of the delegation from the Ministry of Public Security in the stinking interior. He had marched nearly a hundred yards down Chichester Street, before he had calmed himself sufficiently to return to his staff. Pat had seen it coming, knew how angry he would be, how he would rage against the apathy.

They had driven down to the city centre in two cars, intending to see for themselves ‘the state of preparedness’ as it was termed. ‘The bombs will fall,’ he’d said time and again and recently he’d taken to adding, ‘but how many can we save?’ Judging by what they’d seen so far, very few.

He had been full of determination and hope when he returned from London in January. ‘They said they’d help us,’ he told Pat. ‘I gave them a list: search lights, anti-aircraft guns, barrage balloons, money for shelters. God knows they’re stretched themselves. The bombing in London was terrifying to experience, but you felt that the authorities were … well sort of looking after you. I went in a shelter in the Old Kent Road. It was packed, people had brought bedding and food and they even had a singsong. Can you believe it, Pat, as the bombs fell and shook them to their core, they were singing.’

They returned to Stormont in silence, discouraged beyond belief. As they drove up the long drive towards the grandeur of the shining Portland stone building, William ordered the driver to stop. He got out and stared at the building in horror. ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Even the seat of government will gleam like a beacon in the moonlight to guide the enemy to our heart.’

Later as Pat left the office to go home, William was waiting for her. ‘Sorry about that little display earlier,’ he said.

‘Don’t apologise. You were absolutely right to be angry after all you’ve tried to do.’

‘It’s not just me, Pat. It’s everyone at the Ministry and you especially.’ He paused as though considering something. ‘Pat, I’d like you to meet someone.’

He drove towards the university and pulled up outside a three storey Edwardian terrace close to the Botanical Gardens. They had just got out of the car when the door flew open and a little girl of four or five rushed up the garden path and into William’s open arms. He swung her above his head then carried her to the door, where there stood an elegantly dressed woman with blond hair piled neatly on top of her head. William kissed her quickly on the cheek and turned to Pat.

‘Pat, this is my sister Helen and my niece Rosemary. They live with me.’

Pat found herself looking into eyes identical to William’s. ‘Hello, Pat, lovely to meet you at last, William has told me so much about you. Would you like some tea?’

Later, as William drove her home, he explained that Helen’s husband was stationed permanently at the War Office in London and she and Rosemary had been living with him since the start of the war.

‘So you see, Pat, the reports of my marriage were greatly exaggerated.’

‘William, I understand what you are telling me, but it really is none of my business.’

‘But it is, Pat.’

‘I never presumed—’

‘I know you didn’t, but I want to make it clear that my intentions are honourable.’

*

The concert at the Palace Barracks in Holywood had gone well. The Barnstormers had done several encores and by the time they boarded the bus for the drive back to Belfast, it was nearly half past eleven. Some, lulled by the low hum of the engine, had fallen asleep. Pat and Peggy were chatting quietly when Pat stopped mid sentence. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘can you hear that?’

Peggy sat up, surprised by the urgency in Pat’s voice. ‘Is there something wrong with the engine?’

One or two others had also noticed it, an intermittent drone, behind them, above them. The bus slowed, the driver cut the engine and the noise became louder and louder.

‘Oh God!’ breathed Pat, ‘enemy aircraft – the Germans are over our heads. I’m going to have a look!’

‘Don’t leave the bus Pat, they might see you and shoot!’

‘They won’t see us; their eyes are fixed on the city, the docks probably.’

Outside there was a half moon, enough to make out the black shapes of planes following the line of the coast, some with their navigation lights on.

‘Where’s the bloody air-raid siren?’ shouted Sammy. ‘They’re not warnin’ people. They’ll be in their beds, for God sake!’

As if in reply, there was an almighty crack and the anti-aircraft guns began to roar. The noise was deafening and their fire left tracers across the sky.

‘That’ll be the guns at Victoria Park,’ said Pat.

‘But that’s no good,’ screamed Sammy. ’They’re already over the gantries!’ and he pointed to where dozens of cranes, bathed in moonlight, pinpointed the target. Then, at last, came the distinctive sound of the air-raid siren.

They watched as thousands of pinpricks of light like iridescent snow fell from the sky. ‘Magnesium flares,’ said Pat. Another wave of bombers followed the first, someone counted them, eight in total. ‘They’ll drop the incendiary devices,’ said Pat.

‘How do you know so much about German bombers?’ asked Sammy.

‘Because she works for the Ministry of Public Security,’ said Peggy, ‘and they’ve been expecting this for months.’

With the incendiaries came the beginnings of fires in the docks and the streets surrounding them. The Barnstormers huddled together watching the flames, small and isolated at first, turn from a glow to a conflagration until the sky was ablaze.

‘It’s like the burning of Atlanta,’ whispered Peggy.

The following waves of bombers, guided by the flames, brought high explosives and parachute bombs. One group came in from the south, right over their heads and under the barrage balloons. They covered their ears and watched them race above the road then veer towards the docks, but it seemed one pilot had been over eager and released his bombs too soon. There was a piercing scream and Myrtle broke away from the group and began running. By the time Sammy caught her she was hysterical. ‘Them’s my streets!’ She kept shouting. ‘Them’s my streets!’ That the Newtownards Road had been hit was obvious, probably Templemore Avenue too, but Sammy held her fast, shushing her. ‘I know, I know but you’ve got to stay here. It’s not safe.’ They returned to the bus to wait in sombre mood.

Shortly before three thirty, there was a heavy assault of high explosives on the docks area so severe they felt the ground shake and rumble beneath their feet. Then, their mission accomplished, the bombers dipped and rolled and disappeared over the Black Mountain, leaving behind a city wide awake to the dawn and the realities of war.

The Barnstormers waited a while, subdued by what they’d witnessed, then at four o’clock the all-clear sounded.

‘Come on, let’s get home,’ said Sammy. ‘And I’ll tell ye what, youse uns should never complain again about doin’ encores; that extra wee bit of singing might well have kept us from bein’ in the middle of all that.’

*

On the opposite side of the Lough, Martha as usual had found it hard to sleep with the girls still out. Around midnight she too became aware of the droning and knew instantly what it was. She thought about going under the stairs, but the siren hadn’t sounded. The intermittent drone grew louder. Suddenly there was a deafening noise and flashes of light.

‘Sheila!’ she screamed. ‘Wake up! We’re being bombed.’

They followed the drill Pat had taught them and within minutes were huddled under the stairs with all the small comforts they would need to spend the night.

’Mammy, where do you think they are?’

‘Somewhere safe I’m sure, maybe in a shelter. Why don’t you say a wee prayer to keep them safe?’

‘God, you know where Irene, Pat and Peggy Goulding are and that there are bombs falling on Belfast. Please will you keep them safe and me and Mammy too. Amen.’

And in her head Martha repeated over and over. ‘Please God let them be somewhere safe.’ It was at times like these she wished she had some Rosary beads.

*

The bus made good progress towards the city, but as they drove along the Newtownards Road they began to see evidence of the destruction. A church was blazing fiercely, they could feel the heat through the bus windows, but there was no sign of the fire brigade. Further on, the bus started to fill with choking black smoke from a burning timber yard and they had to make a detour. Soon they began to see the severe damage caused by high explosive bombing. The streets were strewn with slates and rubble and glass. At the end of one terrace a gable wall was bulging and in imminent danger of collapse and everywhere was bathed in the orange light of many fires. Near Templemore Avenue, Myrtle left the bus and Sammy went with her.

‘I’ll see her home,’ he said. ‘These streets aren’t safe and God knows what she’ll find when she gets there.’

The bus crossed the river just before five in the artificial dawn of burning fires and the sight from the bridge was so striking that the driver stopped the bus and one by one they filed out in silence to stand and stare at the blazing docks.

*

Martha and Sheila were drinking tea in the kitchen when the girls came in. Everyone was talking at once.

‘Thank God you’re safe.’ Martha kissed each daughter.

‘We saw the whole thing!’ said Peggy.

‘You two went in under the stairs, I hope,’ said Pat.

‘Aye, don’t worry, we followed the drill exactly. It was cold, but quiet. I’d guess there were no bombs dropped up this end.’

‘It’s all round the docks, a bit along the Newtownards Road.’

I’m starving, so I am,’ said Irene. ‘I’ll make us all some breakfast before I go to work?’

‘Mercy me!’ Martha threw her hands in the air. ‘Work is it? There’ll be no work for you girls today after the night you’ve had!’

‘Mammy, it’s because of the night we’ve had that we have to be there.’ Pat was adamant.

‘But there might be no buses running.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll walk all the way if I have to.’

‘And so will I,’ said Irene.

‘Me too,’ said Peggy, ‘If I can find any flat shoes.’

*

Irene crossed the Queen’s Bridge walking slowly, taking in the scene along the river. There were remnants of fires still burning and the air was clogged with so many smells: wood smoke from smouldering timber; melting roof felt from factory buildings and, pervading everything, the stink of cordite. She rounded the corner and her heart leapt. There it was, still standing, and workers crowding through the doors. She saw a woman they sometimes sat with in the canteen and shouted to her. ‘I can’t believe it’s not damaged. I thought it had taken a direct hit.’

‘We all did, they missed it by a whisker, but there was a parachute oil bomb. It just skimmed Shorts and floated across into the Harland and Wolff factory. The whole place burned like firewood. There were fifty Stirling fuselages in there, all gone.’

‘That’s terrible! They were to replace the planes they’ve lost in England.’

‘Worst of it is, a few men on the night shift saw the bomb coming towards them and thought it was a parachute with a German hanging from it and there’s them runnin’ after it to catch him, when the whole lot exploded. Kilt them stone dead!’

Inside the aircraft factory there was some incendiary damage that had been quickly dealt with by the fire watchers and in some of the offices glass skylights had blown in. Irene clocked in and went in search of Myrtle, but found instead Robert McVey.

‘When the all clear sounded I went to check on Myrtle’s family. Her father, brother and sister were in a shelter safe and sound, but her Grannie refused to leave the house. Found out later the house was bombed, but she survived. Myrtle’s trying to find some cousins to take them in.’

*

By early afternoon Pat had read enough reports to give William information on how the public had responded to the raid. ‘The shelters weren’t used much; they’re still in a bad state and some were locked.’

‘And how did people behave?’ asked William.

‘Where there was a lot of damage, people were frightened, but in some places they went on to the streets just to watch the bombs.’

‘When will these people realise the horrors of an air-raid? They’re acting like front seat spectators at a gigantic Brock’s firework display!’

‘Any word on the number of casualties?’ asked Pat.

‘Much lower than expected, thank God. We’ve been lucky, but next time they’ll come back stronger, with twice as many bombs and a wider range of targets.’