Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,
characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the
author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook Published 2012
by Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
E-mail: poolbeg@poolbeg.com
© Geraldine O’Neill 2005
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Typesetting, layout, design, ebook © Poolbeg Press Ltd.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781781990858
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
About the Author
Geraldine O’Neill grew up in Lanarkshire, Scotland. She now lives in County Offaly with her husband Michael Brosnahan, and teaches in the local National School. She has two adult children, Christopher and Clare
Acknowledgements
I would like to give a big thanks to Paula, Kieran and Gaye and all the staff at Poolbeg for being so supportive and enthusiastic about my work.
Thanks to my agent, Sugra Zaman, of Watson, Little Ltd., London for all her guidance and advice and a special thanks to Mandy Little who worked admirably with me and The Grace Girls in Sugra’s absence.
A warm thanks to all my Scottish friends who helped with the research for The Grace Girls, including my nephew Nicky Mallaghan and Bob and Helen Orr, and also to my father who happily guided me through the dance-halls of the fifties.
Thanks also to my old teaching friend and fellow polio-survivor, Margaret Lafferty, for enlightening me about the ‘lacquer-bug’!
I’d also like to express gratitude to my Swanwick friend, renowned Scottish writer, Margaret Thompson Davis, who gave me great encouragement in the days before I was published.
Thanks to Patricia Dunne for accompanying me to Cavan amidst the ice and snow and for partnering me on the dance floor.
Thanks as always to Chris and Clare and to Mike for his unfailing love and support.
A final acknowledgement to all the polio survivors out there, especially those who did not escape as lightly as I did.
Also by Geraldine O’Neill
Tara Flynn
Tara’s Fortune
Aisling Gayle
This book is dedicated with love to
my father and mother, Teddy and Be-Be O’Neill,
who always encouraged me to
dance to my own music.
If a man does not keep pace with his companions,
Perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.
Let him step to the music that he hears,
However measured or far away.
Henry David Thoreau
Chapter 1
Scotland, November 1955
It was raining. A thick, sleety sort of rain that could easily turn into snow. The first snow this winter. It had been cold enough for it the last few days, Heather Grace thought hopefully, having always retained a childish pleasure in snow. And it wouldn’t be that unusual – she often remembered walking to school in a late-November snow. But it wouldn’t be walking to school in the snow now, or catching the bus into the office in Wishaw. From now on it would be walking up to the old Victorian station to catch the train into Glasgow. Right into the middle of the city.
She sat sideways on the stool in front of the kidney-shaped, walnut dressing-table, in the bedroom she shared with her younger sister, Kirsty – her brown eyes gazing out into the dark, drizzly evening, and over the shadowy, square back gardens of her neighbours. But these were not gardens where frivolous flowers grew, as most of the men grew only the earnest potatoes and carrots, turnips and cabbages they had been reared with back in Ireland.
There were a few men like her father who grew roses or hydrangea bushes under the front windows, or straight lines of wallflowers or marigolds at either of the path leading to the front door of the house. Apart from those odd floral glimpses of colour in the summer, most of the houses in the mining village remained stoically grey or stony beige.
There was a slight knuckle-tap on the bedroom door, then Sophie Grace came in carrying a plain pink mug in one hand, and a china mug decorated with freesias and the word Mother in gold handwriting in the other. A short while before she had changed her knitted working jumper for a soft grey fitted cardigan with pearls, which showed off the trim figure that the bubbly Kirsty had inherited. Unlike her petite blonde sister, Heather had taken her mother’s height, but her Irish father’s stocky, more athletic build and his almost black, glossy hair.
‘I have the dinner nearly ready. We’ll have it the minute your father and Kirsty get in,’ Sophie announced, in her local Lanarkshire accent. Unlike her Irish-spoken husband who had come over from Ballygrace in County Offaly in his twenties, Sophie was more Scottish, having been born in Motherwell to an Irish father and Scottish mother. Her allegiance at times leaned more towards her birth country and, tellingly, she had picked traditional Scottish names for her daughters, unlike her in-laws who came down very firmly on the more Irish side. ‘What time did you say your film started?’
‘Twenty past seven,’ Heath
er said. ‘Thanks for hurrying everything up on account of me.’
‘Well,’ her mother said, smiling fondly at her, ‘it’s not often that you go out on a Thursday night so I suppose we can make a wee bit of an effort for you.’
‘I was just weighing up all this about Glasgow . . .’
‘Are you having any second thoughts?’ Sophie asked gently, jostling for a space on the busy dressing-table for the pink mug. She moved a small, navy glass bottle of Avon perfume and the turquoise plastic basket that held the hair-rollers and pins.
‘Nope.’ Heather smiled, catching her mother’s eye through the mirror. She reached over to the transistor radio on her bedside cabinet, to turn down Connie Francis. ‘I think . . . I’m definitely going to take it.’ She put the last spiky roller in her long dark hair, and deftly stuck a small plastic pin through it to secure it. ‘I’m going to hand my notice in at the office in the morning.’
Sophie patted her daughter’s shoulder then sat down on the end of Kirsty’s single bed.
Heather took a sip of the hot tea, enjoying the chance to talk things out with her mother on her own. ‘I’m really excited about it in one way, but if I was to tell the truth . . . I suppose I’m a wee bit nervous about it as well.’ Her newly plucked dark brows creased. ‘It’ll feel funny travelling all the way into Glasgow on the train every day,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but to be honest, I can’t stick the thought of snooty Mrs Anderson being my boss for ever and going on the same bus to the same office for the rest of my life.’
‘A lot of people do . . .’ Sophie said thoughtfully, ‘and you’re still only nineteen.’ She took a mouthful of her tea.
‘I know.’ Heather swung around on the stool to face her mother. ‘But it’s too good a chance to miss – a job in a big office in Glasgow. It’s a real step up for me, and if I don’t take the chance of it now, I might never get it again.’
Sophie nodded her head. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say.’
‘My Auntie Mona wasn’t exactly enthusiastic when I showed her the letter last night, was she?’ Heather said, rolling her eyes. ‘Talk about doom and disaster.’ She gave a giggle now. ‘You’d think I was going to Sodom and Gomorrah the way she was goin’ on, instead of Glasgow.’
Sophie smiled now. ‘Och, don’t pay any heed to what she says. If I listened to everything your Auntie Mona says, I’d never put my nose outside the door. She’d have me tied to the sewing machine and if I ran out of work, she’d have me down on my knees scrubbing and cleaning all day. Then when my own house was spotless she’d expect me over in the chapel to start scrubbing there as well, or maybe polishing the brass on the altar.’
‘She doesn’t half go on when she gets the bit between her teeth, does she?’ Heather said tutting. ‘And she expects everybody in our family to be right holy-willies just because she’s the priest’s housekeeper. She’d have us at early Mass every weekday before work if she had her way.’
‘Och, she doesn’t mean any harm. It’s the way she was brought up in Galway with her uncle a priest and her auntie a nun. She feels she’s got to keep up the family’s standards even though she hasn’t seen some of them for years.’ Sophie rolled her eyes now, looking exactly like an older version of her daughter. ‘She’s nearly worse about housekeeping than she is about religion. I was in trouble with her again this afternoon for forgetting to bring in the washing. She’d warned me several times that there was rain forecast, and there I was, sitting down and all relaxed listening to The Afternoon Play on the wireless when she landed at the back door carrying the basket and the washing, telling me how she’d saved it from getting a real soaking. You should have seen her face when she realised I was sitting down doing nothing.’
‘Oh!’ Heather teased. ‘You’ll be the talk of the street!’
‘If I am, it won’t be the first time,’ Sophie said wryly, taking a drink of her tea. ‘She told me that I might at least have been doing my sewing and listening to the radio.’
‘And you could have tied dusters around your feet and polished the linoleum while you were at it!’ Heather said, giggling at the thought.
‘Och, she was probably looking for that skirt she asked me to hem last night, but I’ve told her that I have two bridesmaids’ dresses to hem before I can look at her skirt.’ Sophie had a small sewing business going, and was kept very busy by the locals, repairing torn items, hemming and altering garments and running up curtains.
The front door opened, and Kirsty’s cheery voice called a greeting. ‘It’s me-e!’
‘We’re upstairs!’ Sophie called back.
There was the sound of footsteps thumping up the stairs and then the bedroom door was energetically thrust open. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late, Mammy, I met this lassie from school that I hadn’t seen for ages and we got chatting,’ the younger girl explained. Her curly blonde hair and camel-coloured duffel coat glistened around the edges with droplets of rain. ‘Anything new or exciting happened since this morning?’ Kirsty was always looking for something exciting to happen.
Heather shrugged. ‘Nothing – we’re just talking about me going to work in Glasgow.’
‘You lucky thing! It’ll be brilliant,’ Kirsty said, sinking down on the bed beside her mother. ‘I wish it was me. I’d love to be in the city every day, being able to walk around the big shops in your lunch break.’ Her eyes took on a dreamy look. ‘I wish I was in Oklahoma or South Pacific or any of the shows that are on in the big music halls . . . then when the weather gets better we could tour around all the big cities like Edinburgh and London.’ She closed her eyes. ‘It would be my greatest wish . . . I’d just love it.’
‘You’re doing well enough for eighteen years old,’ Heather reminded her. ‘You’re one of the youngest singers in any of the bands, and you’re earning more money between your two jobs than I make at the office.’
‘And you’re certainly doing more than enough travelling, Madam,’ Sophie said, stroking her youngest daughter’s damp, blonde curls, which were restrained by a large clasp as her job in the local chemist’s shop dictated. ‘Some evenings you’re hardly in the door, until you’re back out it again.’
‘I know, I know,’ Kirsty said, her blue eyes brightening. ‘We’re out tomorrow night in Coatbridge playing at a dance, and then on Saturday night we’re playing at a talent competition in Hamilton.’
‘Well,’ her mother said, her eyebrows raised in concern, ‘you’d better make sure you get an early night tonight. You can’t be burning the candle at both ends.’
‘We’ll see . . .’ Kirsty said vaguely. She turned to her sister. ‘Who’s going out tonight?’
‘The four of us,’ Heather said, unpinning a roller now to check if her hair was dry yet. It was still a bit damp, so she rolled it back up again.
‘And who’s the four?’ Kirsty persisted.
Heather made a little impatient sound. ‘Oh . . . me and Gerry, and Liz and Jim.’
‘Oh . . . Gerry,’ Kirsty said meaningfully, then started to unbutton the toggles on her coat. ‘And what are you going to see?’
Heather shrugged. ‘I’m not sure . . . I think it might be some kind of a gangster film.’ Her face darkened a little. ‘It was Gerry’s idea – so no doubt it will be a fella’s kind of film.’
‘Well, at least it’s a night out, and it won’t cost you anything if Gerry’s taking you,’ Kirsty pointed out.
‘Sometimes I pay,’ Heather retorted, ‘and if he gets the tickets first, I often buy the ice-creams and the drinks.’ She looked over at her mother. ‘I must make sure that we don’t stuff ourselves with hot-dogs again tonight, I can feel my working skirts getting a bit too tight again.’
‘Just cut out the rubbish,’ Sophie said firmly, ‘and you’ll be fine.’
‘You’re daft,’ Kirsty stated. ‘I wouldn’
t be arguing with him if he wanted to pay for everything. It leaves you more money to spend on yourself. Anyway, he earns more than you – and you’ve been going out with him for nearly six months.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to let him pay for everything,’ Heather said, her voice rising in indignation. Although they got on well for sisters, sometimes Kirsty really got on her nerves the way she voiced her opinions on everything so forcefully. And it was especially irritating when the opinions were about Gerry.
‘Right,’ Sophie said, standing up now. She could always tell when things needed diffusing between the girls. She made towards the hallway now. ‘I’ll go down and check that the potatoes aren’t boiling too quickly and you ladies can follow me down shortly. Put that wet coat in the airing cupboard now, Kirsty, so that it’s dry right through for work in the morning.’
‘What’s for dinner, Mam?’ Kirsty asked, getting to her feet now. ‘I’m absolutely starving.’
‘Stew and carrots and peas.’
‘Brilliant! I’ll have a big plateful, because I’ve only had a roll and a wee Dairylea triangle since I left the house this morning.’
‘You should have come home at lunchtime and I’d have made you something decent,’ Sophie told her.
‘I know,’ Kirsty agreed, ‘but the others were all staying in the shop, and anyway, it was that miserable out I couldn’t be bothered walking home in case I got soaked.’
‘A cheese triangle and a roll – it’s no wonder you’re so skinny, if that’s all you’re eating during the day,’ Heather told her, secretly wishing she could last all day on such a small amount. Maybe her skirts would fit better if she tried to copy her sister. ‘That’s a really stupid way to be carrying on.’ Even after a breakfast of cereal and boiled egg and toast, Heather often found herself starving by eleven o’clock in the morning, and could quite easily demolish the two rounds of sandwiches, crisps and chocolate biscuits she took to work every day for her lunch. Some days she did exactly that, and other days she made do with a bun or a hot sausage roll when the tea-trolley came around, and kept the sandwiches until one o’clock.