The Grace Girls (13 page)

‘How’s Kirsty doing?’ Gerry enquired now. He turned to the side again, trying to engage her in a deeper, more serious conversation. ‘Liz was telling me and Jim that she’s got a new manager.’

‘She’s fine, it all seems to be going well,’ Heather said, giving a little sigh that she hoped would indicate her irritation at being forced into talking to him. He took the hint. He turned back in his seat and after a few minutes he leaned down and got his newspaper out of the carrier bag.

Heather looked at her watch and willed away the minutes until the train arrived in Rowanhill.

Chapter 16

Kirsty stared into the crammed, white-painted, wooden wardrobe she shared with her sister, trying to decide what to wear. This was something she’d never had to plan for before – a meal out in a posh hotel, especially with an older, sophisticated man like Larry Delaney.

When he had called in to see her at the chemist’s shop th
at afternoon – all dressed up in an expensive grey and black herring-bone coat and soft grey wool scarf – and casually suggested that they go out for the
evening to discuss her singing future under his management, Kirsty had eagerly agreed, presuming they were going to a café or a quiet pub lounge somewhere. Then he had said that they could talk over dinner at a nice hotel in Lanark and that he’d pick her up at the house in his car at seven o’clock. It had all happened so quickly that she had just agreed, not really taking in what she had agreed to, then after he’d left Kirsty had felt a little knot forming in her
stomach.

Kirsty had never actually been out for a meal with
any
man, as her escorts up until now had always been boys her own age, who would have been more terrified to walk into a restaurant or a hotel than she would have been.

She had rushed out of the chemist’s shop as soon as the lights were off and ran all the way home to make sure she had plenty of time to get ready for this special night out. With her coat still on, she’d rushed upstairs to the airing cupboard to check that the tank was filled with enough hot water for a bath, then rushed back downstairs to tell her mother she wouldn’t be having any dinner.

‘You’re going to a
hotel
for your dinner?’ her mother had said in a high, surprised voice.

‘Where?’

‘I think he said Lanark,’ Kirsty said, hanging up her duffle coat. ‘And I haven’t a clue what to wear or what I’ll talk about when I’m out . . .’

‘You’ll be fine,’ her mother had said, coming over to put her arms around her. ‘Just wear something nice and tidy, that makes you look as if you know what you’re talking about.’

Kirsty rifled through the hangers, vaguely muttering to herself as she did so, and every so often lifting out a dress or a suit and throwing it on top of the growing pile on Heather’s bed. She hoped to have picked an outfit and have everything back in the wardrobe before her fussier, tidier sister came in and started complaining about the state of the room.

The wardrobe was split into two distinct halves, with the girls sharing the hanging rail and each having a shelved section at either side of the mirrored wardrobe. Normally, Kirsty kept strictly to her own section because Heather was extremely fussy about the order things were hung in. She liked skirts and dresses all together, blouses on hangers and jumpers carefully folded on the shelf, and she hated Kirsty touching her stuff. But tonight Kirsty was desperate for just the right outfit, and she was counting on her sister to understand.

‘The bath’s ready, hen!’ her mother called from along the hallway. ‘I’ve turned the taps off so’s it doesn’t run over . . .’ There was a pause. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a wee plate of home-made soup before you go out?’

‘No thanks,’ Kirsty called back in a high voice, irritated with the interruption. She picked out a reddish-blue tartan suit of Heather’s, which had been covered in a polythene dry-cleaner’s bag, and then she swung the wardrobe door closed to see what it looked like held up to her in the long mirror. It had a lovely, single-breasted jacket caught in at the waist with a half-belt and a tight-fitted skirt. She knew that Heather had bought it in Glasgow last Christmas, and had only worn it a few times because it just fitted her and no more. She was always hoping to lose a few pounds so that it would look and feel better on her. Kirsty looked at it now, her eyes narrowed in thought, turning her head to one side and then the other. It was definitely the best so far, and she knew that it would easily fit her with room to spare, and if she wore it with her tight red sweater, with a nice broad belt, it would look lovely when she took the jacket off.

‘I’ve a big favour to ask,’ Kirsty said, meeting Heather at the top of the stairs wearing a dressing-gown and with a towel wrapped around her damp hair. ‘I’ve got a really important meeting tonight with that manager, Larry Delaney . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘He’s taking me out for a meal, and I need to look my very,
very
best . . .’ She paused. ‘I haven’t anything suitable amongst my own clothes . . . You know I wouldn’t normally ask, but it’s
really
, really important.’

Heather gave a loud sigh and unpinned the green beret she was wearing from her dark hair. Kirsty was forever doing this, and the number of times she had returned things with buttons missing and hems coming down had resulted in her older sister putting a ban on them borrowing clothes from each other.

Heather moved from the top step to the hallway outside their bedroom door. ‘Which outfit exactly are we talking about?’ she asked, on her tiptoes now, holding the beret and trying to see past her sister in through the open bedroom door.

‘I promise I’ll pay to get it dry-cleaned again as soon as you feel it needs it,’ Kirsty rushed on, almost barring the way into the room where the suit lay spread out on the bed alongside the red sweater and a fancy garnet brooch she’d borrowed from her mother. ‘So . . . is it OK if I take a loan of one of your suits?’

Heather’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s not the good tartan suit you’re talking about?’

A pained expression came on Kirsty’s face. ‘I wouldn’t normally ask . . . but it’s a
really
special occasion, and I need to make a good impression.’

Heather shook her head. ‘“You know fine well I’ve only
worn that about twice . . . I was keeping it up for Christmas.’

Kirsty’s shoulders sagged and she looked almost wounded. ‘I’ve
nothing
of my own that would look as nice,’ she said in a low, uncertain voice, ‘or anythin’ that looks kind of professional. If I’d had time, I’d have run into Glasgow or Motherwell and bought myself somethin’ new, but he only asked me this afternoon . . .’

She looked at Heather now, and Heather looked back at her.

‘Aw – go on!’ Heather finally said. ‘Take it – but you’d better –’

‘I will, I will!’ Kirsty said, hugging her. ‘I’ll really look a
fter it, and I promise I’ll get it dry-cleaned at the weekend.’

Sophie and Heather stood at the side of the curtain as Kirsty and Larry went down the little path still flanked with the straggly remnants of the autumn wallflowers, Kirsty walking with great dignity in a pair of reasonably comfortable black stilettos. They watched as Larry moved forward to open the passenger door on the shiny Wolseley to let Kirsty in first.

‘Good manners,’ Sophie murmured, nodding her head in approval, ‘that’s the sign of a real gentleman.’

‘My daddy always lets you in the car first,’ Heather said. They both watched now as the car pulled away.
Not that our car’s as fancy as that
, Heather thought to herself.

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Sophie said, smiling. She started drawing the curtains now to keep in the heat. ‘And that’s one of the first things I liked
about your father. He might be rough and ready in certain ways, but in other ways he’s always been a real gentleman . . . always had that wee touch of romance.’

When Heather turned to look at her mother, there was a dewy, far-away look in Sophie’s eyes that made her feel a little uncomfortable, along with the thought of her father being described as
romantic
.

‘Kirsty looked well in the suit,’ her mother said now. ‘It made her look older and more confident.’

‘I wish it fitted me as well as it fits her,’ Heather said ruefully, smoothing down her dark pleated working skirt. ‘I need to cut out all the biscuits and things in the office at the break times.’

‘I think you look as though you’ve lost a few pounds already,’ Sophie said, going over to check if the fire needed more coal. Fintan had left a heaped bucketful before going up to put the heating on in the school hall for the boys’ guild that met there every Thursday night.

‘D’you really think so?’ Heather said, smiling now. ‘I’ve noticed that my skirts aren’t just as tight, right enough.’ She sat down on the edge of the couch, picking up the
Daily Record
to check what was on the radio that night.

‘All that running up and down to the station and the walk up that hill to your office will be helping to keep you trim,’ Sophie told her, as she picked a few big lumps of coal from the bucket with the tongs, and threw them into the heart of the fire.

‘Aye,’ Heather said, feeling the little gap in the waistband of her skirt that wasn’t there when she bought it a few weeks ago. ‘If I cut out all the sweet things, it might make a good difference by Christmas.’

Sophie sat down in the armchair by the fire, a thoughtful look on her face. ‘What did you think of that manager fella?’

Heather shrugged, flicking through the paper now. ‘He seemed nice enough . . . what did you think?’

‘Aye,’ her mother said, nodding, ‘he seemed a nice man. Well dressed and well spoken.’

‘That’s what you’d expect from a manager or an agent, or whatever he’s called,’ Heather commented. ‘They’ve got to look the part for people to take them seriously.’

‘Aye,’ her mother said again. ‘But he’s a handsome-looking man, and I’d say he knows it only too well.’ She looked up at the clock, checking when Fintan would be back in for his cup of tea. ‘Kirsty was takin’ their night out very seriously anyway, she was like a scalded cat running up and down the stairs and checking she looked all right.’ She halted. ‘I hope she doesn’t take it all too seriously, for he’s the type of man that would have plenty of women running around after him.’

‘Mammy!’ Heather said, rolling her eyes in mock horror. ‘Kirsty’s not going to be in the slightest bit interested in the likes of him, apart from her singing.’ She started to giggle now, amazed at the daft ideas her mother came up with. ‘He’s ancient! He must be about thirty at least . . . Kirsty wouldn’t look twice at him. If she heard what you were saying, she’d die laughing.’

Sophie smiled now and shook her head. ‘Don’t be too sure.’

‘Get away – he’s far too old for her,’ Heather said, still laughing at the thought.

‘Famous last words,’ Sophie said quietly. ‘Famous last words.’

Chapter 17

‘
A Babycham, if I remember correctly?’ Larry said in his rich Dublin accent, smiling warmly at Kirsty.

‘Lovely,’ Kirsty replied, smiling back, delighted that he’d remembered.

They had arrived half an hour before the restaurant booking, as Larry said it would give them plenty of time in case the roads started to get icy, but the drive up to Lanark had turned out to be lovely and the roads had been perfectly dry and clear. They had veered off the main road just outside the town and climbed a narrow winding road past lovely big old houses up to the Clydeside area.

Then they had driven on a little further and suddenly when they turned a corner, the old Victorian sandstone hotel was just in front of them. Larry had parked at the side of the hotel, and then moved quickly again to open the passenger door for Kirsty.

When she got out of the car and looked around her at the beautiful gardens still miraculously in colour in winter, and the other fancy cars that were parked, Kirsty had felt a pang of nervousness.

The thought of having to walk into the imposing building had suddenly made her remember her father’s uncomfortable atti­tude when they had days out on the train to Edinburgh and Glasgow, and their mother suggested going into places like this for afternoon tea or a cup of coffee and a cake.

‘They’re not for the likes of us,’ Fintan would venture as they stood outside the hotels, debating whether or not to go in. The thought of having to give orders from complicated menus to waiters in tailed coats and bow-ties filled him with dread, and there was always the matter of negotiating the tiny china cups with his large hands, which were much more suited to shovelling in coal or fiddling with the Victorian plumbing in the school. They would walk on for another while past homely tea-rooms or big bustling restaurants frequented by people more like themselves, but eventually they would turn a corner to be confronted by another formidable establishment and that would start Sophie off again.

‘But I would really like to go in,’ she would argue in a low voice, ‘and our money is as good as anybody else’s. We’re all dressed up for the day, and it lets us see how the other half live.’

‘I’m not in the slightest bit interested in how they live,’ Fintan would sigh.

Sophie would then pause. ‘I want the girls to feel confident – to know they can walk into places like this when they’re older and be every bit as good as the next one. After all, it’s only once a year . . . it’s not as if we’re out together as a family every weekend. It’s only a bit of a treat . . .’