Secrets and Shadows (4 page)

‘I don’t have any records,’ she answered, ‘these all belong to Granddad and Uncle Freddie.’

Barry had already begun to sift through the records, reading the artists’ names from the printed sleeves.

‘God, I believe you,’ he said.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s old people’s music, isn’t it? “The Bluebell Polka”? “The Gondoliers”? ‘Brass Band Favourites”?”

Even though these
were
old fashioned, Grace felt obliged to defend Granddad. ‘There’s good stuff too. “Over the Rainbow” is a great song,’ she said, indicating the record sleeve with its picture of Judy Garland.

‘Yeah, that one’s good,’ said Barry.

‘And “Red Sails in the Sunset” is good too.’

‘It’s not bad. But in Liverpool we get lots of ships from America
– so we know all the latest stuff.’

‘Really?’ said Grace, slightly irked by the way he made himself sound superior. ‘What’s so great about the latest stuff from America?’

‘It’s just brilliant. I heard the record of Glen Miller doing “In the Mood” before it was even played on the radio.’

‘Yeah?’

‘And Louis Armstrong with “When the Saints go Marching in”.’ And Gene Autry. Have you heard him singing “Blueberry Hill”?”

‘No – but I’ve walked up Christchurch Hill.’

It was a smart answer, but Grace had become a bit fed up with Barry’s boasting. To her surprise he smiled briefly at her retort.

‘OK,’ he replied. ‘I’m just saying that great tunes come from America, and we get lots of them first in Liverpool.’

He had a nice smile, Grace thought, even if he was a bit cocky. But still, that didn’t mean she wanted him as her friend. Adults were in charge of most things in life, but the one thing they couldn’t do was decide who your friends were.

He returned to going through the records, then raised an eyebrow as though surprised at what he found. “You are my Sunshine” by Jimmie Davis. That’s a decent one.’

‘Glad you approve,’ said Grace.

If Barry picked up on the sarcasm he chose not to acknowledge it. Instead he handed her the record.

‘Want to try it?’ he said.

Grace took it from him but didn’t put it on. He wasn’t going
to come in here and be the boss. ‘We’ll play it after this,’ she said, taking up another record.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘“When You Wish Upon a Star”. I really like it,’ said Grace, and she looked him in the eye, as though daring him to run it down. He held her gaze, and she sensed that there was going to be an argument. Then he nodded and suddenly smiled again.

‘Good choice,’ he said.

Grace was taken by surprise, so she made no response and instead put on the record. She wasn’t sure what to make of this Barry Malone. He was unpredictable, one moment annoying, the next moment likeable. Well, she wasn’t going to worry about it, she decided. So she sat on the sofa, listened happily to the lilting melody, and wondered how long she would have to stay here keeping him company.

‘R
ight turn, arms lift, full stretch – and down!’

Barry did the final exercise in the outdoor drill session, then lowered his arms and relaxed, the air in the schoolyard sweet this morning with the smell from a local bakery.

‘Very good, boys, dismissed!’ cried Mr Pawlek.

Barry watched as the drill master moved among the pupils, exchanging a greeting here and a word of encouragement there. He had the knack of being friendly to the boys yet at the same time wielding the kind of authority that meant nobody messed about during his drill classes.

He came towards Barry now and nodded in greeting. ‘So, Mr Malone,’ he said with a hint of playfulness in his use of the word mister, ‘how are you finding life in Dublin?’

‘Fine sir,’ answered Barry, impressed again at how fluent Mr Pawlek’s English was. Barry had heard Polish spoken back in Liverpool, and it sounded to him like a language that was very different to English, so Mr Pawlek must have studied hard.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ continued the teacher. ‘It can be a little strange coming to a new country.’

‘Yes, sir, though Ireland isn’t really new to me. I’ve often visited my grandmother before.’

‘Good. Every boy should be spoiled by his grandmother,’ the
teacher said smilingly.

Barry smiled in return, then saw Shay McGrath over the teacher’s shoulder. He had kept well away from the other boy since McGrath had attempted to bully him yesterday, but now McGrath caught his eye. McGrath put out his tongue at Barry and made licking gestures. He was being mocked, with McGrath suggesting that he was licking up to the teacher. But what was he supposed to do if Mr Pawlek was being friendly? Not smile, in case a bully like McGrath thought he was trying to win favour? He decided to ignore the other boy’s insult and returned his gaze to the drill master.

‘It must be hard, away from your parents,’ said Mr Pawlek sympathetically. ‘Do you often hear from your father?’

‘Not too often, sir,’ said Barry.

‘Where is he serving?’

‘Somewhere in the Mediterranean. He can’t tell us where.’

‘Ah, right. Still, I’m sure his ship will return to England soon.’

‘I hope so, sir,’

‘And your mother isn’t too far away. She’ll probably visit regularly.’

‘It’s not that easy, sir. She can only really come when she takes holidays from work.’

‘Of course. So many women working now, with the men off at war. What is she doing?’

‘She’s a riveter in a factory.’

‘Really? What does she make?’

Mr Pawlek said it casually, his light blue eyes looking at Barry in enquiry.

Barry hesitated briefly. Mum’s job was in an aircraft factory, and people were always being told not to gossip about anything to do with the war effort. ‘Loose lips sink ships’ was the phrase on the government warning posters that urged people not to discuss military matters. But Grace Ryan had asked Barry all about Mum’s job when they had listened to records yesterday, and Mr Pawlek was looking at him now with the same kind of sympathetic curiosity. ‘She’s making aeroplane parts for the RAF,’ Barry answered.

‘Spitfires, is it?’

Barry was surprised at the extent of Mr Pawlek’s interest. But then again he was Polish, and Poland had been invaded by the Nazis, so it was understandable that he would be interested in how Britain’s Royal Air Force was waging war on Germany.

‘No, sir, Hurricanes mostly.’

‘A fine aircraft, the Hurricane. And brave of your mother to stay in Liverpool after the bombing. Is she working in the city itself?’

‘No, she works outside town. She has to get a bus.’

‘I was in Liverpool years ago,’ said Mr Pawlek. ‘Great city. What part does she get the bus to?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. I just know it takes about twenty minutes.’

Mr Pawlek looked as though he was going to ask another question, but then he hesitated and nodded instead. ‘Very good. Well, I hope your mother gets holidays soon.’

‘Me too, sir.’

‘And a word of advice?’

‘Sir?’

‘I believe you’re quite good at football. Follow that up. Sport is a good way for someone … someone from outside to gain acceptance. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mr Pawlek. And thanks … thanks for the advice.’

‘You’re welcome.’ The drill master nodded in farewell, then moved off across the school yard.

Barry stood unmoving for a moment, lost in thought. The conversation had gone in directions that he hadn’t expected. And as for the advice about gaining acceptance – did the teacher know that McGrath had been picking on him? Before he could consider it any more the bigger boy approached.

‘How’s it goin’ – fishface?!’

Barry didn’t answer.

‘Cat got your tongue, Malone? You’d plenty to say a minute ago when you were being teacher’s pet.’

Barry was tempted to argue but sensed that it would be better to ignore the other boy’s comments.

‘Maybe licking up to teachers is what you do in England,’ said McGrath. ‘But we don’t do it here. So catch yourself on. Or better still, go back to where you came from.’ He turned away and pushed past Barry, deliberately shouldering him.

Barry regained his balance and watched him go, knowing that sooner or later he would have to deal with the other boy’s bullying. The problem was, he didn’t know how he could.

‘T
ry every cake in the shop!’ said Nellie.

Grace looked at her new boss disbelievingly.

‘Not all at once, of course. But you need to know everything we make. It’s easier to sell to customers when you can recommend things yourself.’

‘Great,’ said Grace, ‘I’ll work my way through them all.’

It was Grace’s first day in the bakery. She was being trained in by the owner, Nellie Kinsella, a tall, thin woman in her sixties who was a friend of Granddad’s. For someone so tall, Nellie moved with quick, jerky motions, and she had a habit of staring people directly in the eye when giving her views. She had never married, and Granddad had said that her two passions in life were playing cards and smoking Sweet Afton cigarettes. Grace thought that she was going to like her. And despite the older woman’s quirky manner, Grace was impressed – after all, there weren’t that many women who ran their own businesses.

Nellie had shown her around the back of the shop, where flour was stocked in large brown sacks and where she baked the bread and cakes in a big oven. Grace had been intrigued to know how her boss managed to get supplies of scarce ingredients, and Nellie had explained that in running a business she was entitled to an industrial quota of rations – although sometimes supplies were
interrupted and she had to bake items that required less fruit, or sugar, or whatever other ingredient ran short because of the war.

Now she had finished showing Grace the way to work the cash register and how to keep track of the stock. Grace looked at the tempting rows of rhubarb and apple tarts, jam slices, gur cakes and scones. She was looking forward to trying some of them, but for now she gave her attention to Nellie, who was about to leave her alone in the shop for the first time.

‘So remember, Grace, the customer is always right – even though half the time they’re eejits and they’re wrong. But when they come in here they’re right, and we’re nice to them.’

‘OK.’

‘On the other hand, you have to have your wits about you. Most people are honest, but there’s some would take the eye out of your head. Do you follow?’

‘Yes. The customers are always right – but watch them like a hawk.’

Nellie smiled. ‘Now you have it. I’ll be back to lock up.’

‘All right, Miss Kinsella.’

The older woman crossed the shop in several jerky strides, then exited into the busy thoroughfare of Manor Street, leaving Grace alone behind the counter.

Grace looked at the rows of cakes and felt her mouth watering. The last five days had been tough, what with losing her home in the air raid and then having to start from scratch in a new school. But as part-time jobs went this was a pretty good one, so
maybe her luck was turning. And right now the only decision was whether to have a jam slice or a slab of gur cake. Maybe she would have both. But which to try first? She thought a moment, then went to the cash register and pressed the key, as Nellie had taught her. The machine rang, and the till opened. Grace reached in and took out a penny, then quickly tossed it.
Heads for gur cake, harps for a jam slice.
It was heads. She replaced the penny and shut the till, took up a slice of juicy-looking gur cake and raised it to her mouth. No, she thought, this wasn’t a
pretty good
job – this was a
brilliant
job!

Barry walked contentedly along the street. Today had been a good day. In school there had been no trouble with Shay McGrath, and he had scored a really stylish goal for his team in a schoolyard football game. The morning had begun well with a letter from his mother. It contained a ten shilling note and lots of news from Liverpool. The most exciting thing for Barry however was the details that his mother sent regarding the Royal Navy’s sinking of the biggest, fastest ship in the German navy, the battleship
Bismarck
. The Germans had boasted that
Bismarck
was unsinkable, but Mum had explained how a fleet of British vessels and aircraft had pursued it for over seventeen hundred miles, finally sinking it west of Land’s End.

Barry thought of his father, and hoped that his ship had been
involved in the victory. It would help to make up for all the months in which he had missed Dad if his vessel had been involved in this blow against the Nazis.

Lost in his thoughts, Barry continued along the busy thoroughfare of Stoneybatter, the late afternoon sunshine bathing the fronts of the shops and pubs along the street in golden light. He walked on past where Stoneybatter became Manor Street, then stopped at the shop known as Miss K’s. He checked that he had the half crown his granny had given him, then stepped into the bakery. To his surprise he saw Grace Ryan behind the counter.

‘Oh…it’s you!’

‘Who did you expect?’ she answered.

‘Miss Kinsella. Doesn’t matter – it’s the cakes I came for.’

‘Right.’

‘Sorry. That sounded a bit…what I mean is…’

‘It doesn’t matter who serves you, once you get your cakes?’

Was she annoyed with him? Barry hadn’t meant his comment about the cakes to sound blunt, but surely it wasn’t that bad? He thought back to a couple of days ago when he had listened to records with Grace. He had had mixed feelings then about her. She seemed like she was good fun in some ways, but she had been a bit narky too. Though maybe that was because – like himself – she didn’t like grown-ups trying to decide who her friends should be. Or was she just a difficult person? He looked at her now, not sure what to think.

Suddenly she smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘you’ll get your cakes.’

Barry found himself smiling back, relieved that his awkward-sounding comment hadn’t caused a problem after all.

‘I can recommend the gur cake,’ she said. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

Barry looked at the thick slabs of gur cake with their juicy dark brown filling, and he was tempted, but he shook his head. ‘My grandma sent me to get an apple tart. I better not buy anything else.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Grace, taking his money and giving him back a wrapped apple tart and his change. ‘Do you like jam slices?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, but like I said…’

‘Your grandma told you to buy a tart – I know.’

Grace took up a sharp-looking carving knife, and Barry wondered what she was up to.

‘I get to sample all the cakes,’ she continued. ‘So, fancy sampling half a jam slice?’

‘Well…’

‘Of course you do!’ laughed Grace, then she swiftly cut a jam slice in two and handed him one portion.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re grand. Sure all you’re doing is helping me learn our range of cakes, right?’ She winked, then popped half her piece into her mouth.

‘Right,’ said Barry, with a grin. Then he happily followed Grace’s example, bit into the jam slice, and thought that maybe they could be friends after all.