The Grace Girls (45 page)

‘Lovely,’ Lily said. She paused, a rare shy look appearing on her face. ‘Actually, everybody says she looks a bit like me.’ Her eyes grew wide. ‘She’s got the same blonde hair and everythin’,
and
–’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘She’s a dead famous singer!’

‘Is she now?’ Frankie said, looking at the watch he had pinned on his tunic and not really listening. He had a young boy to pick up from theatre in quarter of an hour – an appendix case – and he didn’t want to get into trouble for being late again. The surgeon that was on this afternoon was particularly bad­tempered and had shouted at him in front of the nurses the other morning.

‘I’m tellin’ the truth,’ Lily said with a slightly huffy tone to her voice, being very sensitive to people not taking her seriously. ‘She sings on the stage in really posh places now.’

Frankie nodded his head distractedly. ‘Did Marjorie say how long she would be?’ he asked.

‘No, she didn’t,’ Lily replied. She stopped for a moment. ‘When are you on a late shift again, Frankie?’

‘Tomorrow night,’ he said, whistling a tune in agitation. That impatient surgeon would really take the head off him this afternoon if he was late again.

The door swung open now and Marjorie came striding through. ‘All ready, Miss Grace?’

She went around the other side of the bed to help Frankie lift their little patient.

‘You don’t need to lift me. If you just hold the trolley,’ Lily told them, ‘I can easily slide across.’

‘Go on then,’ Frankie told her, intrigued as to whether she actually could move herself.

Very carefully, Lily got up into a straight sitting position then, with her arms supporting her on the bed, she gingerly swung her legs around and onto the trolley. After a couple of shuffling movements of her bottom, she was sitting straight in the middle of the trolley. ‘Well,’ she said, a little breathlessly, ‘whiddye think of that then?’ She lay down, tired from this final exertion.

‘Like I said before,’ Marjorie told her, ‘you’re just a wee star!’

Chapter 49

‘
Are you sure you’re up to going in tomorrow?’ Sophie checked. It was Tuesday night and they were all sitting around the fire, drinking tea after their evening meal. Fintan was in the kitchen with the table covered in newspapers, cleaning shoes. ‘You’ve not slept properly since Sunday night.’

‘I’ll have to go in,’ Heather said in a flat voice. ‘I’ve no option, I won’t get paid otherwise. I’ll probably lose the day’s pay for the funeral on Thursday anyway, and I can’t afford to lose the two days.’ All the shops and offices had been off the Monday and Tuesday with New Year’s Day being on the Sunday.

‘It would be a lot easier to just say you were sick,’ Kirsty piped
up. ‘One of us could ring in for you and say you weren’t well enough to go to work, and then you could go to the funeral and get paid for it. If you need a doctor’s note you only have to say that you’ve not been feelin’ well.’

‘I wouldn’t like to,’ Heather said, shaking her head. ‘It would be telling a lie.’ She suddenly thought of having to face Sarah back in Seafreight and she felt even more tired. She would dearly love the couple of extra days off to catch up on her sleep and just hide away from everything.

‘Och, how are they going to know any different?’ Kirsty asked, twirling a strand of her curly blonde hair around her finger. ‘As far as they know you could be lyin’ in your bed dying with flu.’

‘I think Kirsty has a point there,’ Sophie said. ‘You’ve not had much sleep these last few days, which can’t have done you any good.’

‘I’m not sure if they’ll pay me,’ Heather said. ‘I might be too new to get paid for being sick.’

‘You don’t need that much money now Christmas is over,’ Sophie said gently. ‘And you can always pay us two days less dig money if you’re off. Your father won’t argue with that . . . he’d rather see you back to your old self.’

‘And I can give you a few pounds if you’re stuck,’ Kirsty offered. ‘I haven’t had much time over Christmas and New Year to spend anything.’ She laughed now. ‘I’m going to go mad at the January sales at the weekend.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Heather said, ‘and thanks for offering about the money. It’s good of you both.’

Fintan appeared at the living-room door holding a heavy black shoe in one hand and a polish brush in the other. ‘Have ye all decided who’s going to the rosary at the Stewarts’ tonight?’

‘I’m going,’ Sophie said, looking at the clock. It was twenty to seven and the rosary was scheduled for half past. The actual prayers would only take about half an hour, but people would stay on, having a cup of tea or a small drink with plates of sandwiches and cakes being passed around.

‘I thought I’d go into the hospital with Michael and Sean tonight,’ Kirsty said. ‘Lily was complaining that I’ve not been in to see her as often, so I’d better show my face or she’ll be giving me a right telling off.’

‘That’s good,’ Sophie said, ‘because I know Mona and Pat are going to the rosary tonight as well.’

Kirsty gave a sigh. ‘I’d better get going, Michael said he’d toot the horn for me at twenty past seven.’ She laughed. ‘D’you know what that cheeky wee bizzim said to Mona about me last night?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised at anything she said,’ Fintan laughed.

‘She said to tell me to make sure I looked my best! Can you believe it?’ Kirsty was shaking her head in disbelief and laughing. ‘She said she was tellin’ some of the nurses that I was a famous singer and they wouldn’t believe her, so I’ve to make sure I’m all dressed up in my best things and they might believe her then. She said I’d not to come into the hospital with my old duffel coat on or she’ll kill me. I’ve to do my hair up and I’ve to wear something fashionable.’

Sophie threw an eye across at Heather who was the o
nly one not laughing. She didn’t even seem to be listenin
g. She was just starting into the fire, lost in her own thoughts.

‘You might be glad of your duffel coat tonight,’ Fintan said, nodding towards the dark window. ‘It would freeze the lugs off you out there. The weathermen on the radio were right, the mild spell is gone and the temperatures have dropped.’ He tapped Sophie on the shoulder. ‘I’d be careful what shoes you put on tonight, for it’s going to be frosty later and you could have a fall like last year. You were all black and blue with bruises after it.’

Sophie looked startled. ‘It was my pride that was more
hurt than my legs,’ she said, remembering. ‘Imagine falli
ng outside the church after Sunday Mass – I was pure m
ortified.’ She suddenly decided, ‘I’ll wear my black leathe
r boots, the ones with the good rubber soles.’

‘If you dig them out, I’ll give them a quick polish for you,’ Fintan said, going back into the kitchen.

Sophie got to her feet, a small frown on her face. ‘Have y
ou decided what you’re doing about tonight yet, Heathe
r? Are you coming to the rosary with me and your daddy or are you going to the hospital with Kirsty?’

There was a silence. ‘Neither,’ Heather finally said, ‘I’m just going to go to bed.’

‘And what about work in the morning?’

Heather took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I’ll go in,’ she decided. ‘If I get a good night’s sleep I’ll feel a lot better.’

Kirsty felt she knew every stone on the road into the hospital, she’d been there that often over the last month. At least things were a lot brighter and cheerier now than they’d been when they first started travelling. Michael and Sean Grace were two nice lads, and she enjoyed the journey over with them, chatting about music and work. Sometimes they were shy and quiet with her and Heather – especially if there was a crowd around – but she could tell it was because they weren’t that confident and quite easily embarrassed.

Kirsty sat in the back seat, all dressed up in a pair of fitted navy trousers that showed off her slim waist and hips and a pale blue twin-set that she only wore on special occasions. She’d put rollers in her hair and given them a good spray with lacquer while she was getting dressed, and it had given it the more glamorous wavy look that she knew Lily would approve of.

She’d finished putting on a final coat of mascara, combed out her long blonde hair and was just stepping back to admire herself in the wardrobe mirror when her cousin tooted the car horn.

Heather had been downstairs in the kitchen filling a hot-water bottle to take up to bed.

‘Will you be all right?’ Kirsty had asked in a concerned voice as she pulled on her short blue swing coat. ‘I’m still not convinced you should go into work.’ She stopped. ‘What about that bitchy Sarah? Are you up to facing her the way you’re feeling?’

Heather had looked up at her with dark-ringed eyes. ‘I couldn’t care less about Sarah,’ she’d said. ‘I was just thinking about it earlier and I realised that after what’s happened, stupid childish things like that don’t matter.’ She’d given a little shrug. ‘If she doesn’t want to talk to me then that’s her hard luck. There’s plenty of other people in the office I can be friendly with.’

‘Good for you!’ Kirsty had said, her voice full of admiration. She had been delighted to hear her sister sticking up for herself. Heather was always too worried about keeping on the right side of people so this was a definite improvement.

The car horn had tooted again.

‘Well, get yourself a good night’s sleep.’ Kirsty had said, making for the hall. Then, just as she went to open the front door, she’d turned on her heel and walked quickly back into the kitchen. She’d walked over to her sister and put both arms around her neck.

‘You’ll be fine, Heather,’ she had said, hugging her. ‘You’ll feel much better in the morning.’ She’d given a little laugh. ‘And if that Sarah so much as looks as you the wrong way, tell her your wee sister will come in and batter her!’

The lads chatted about a new engine they were going to put in the car that would make it even faster. Kirsty chipped in now and again, but her conversation was token and gradually she slipped back into her own thoughts about the events of the last few days. Gerry Stewart was her main thought. It was hard to think of anything else, because apart from the fact that his death had been the most terrible shock, she still found it impossible to imagine that someone her own age could actually be dead and gone for ever.

Someone she had laughed and had a joke with was now going to be put in a coffin and buried under the ground, never ever to be seen or heard from again.

When she pushed the dark, disturbing thoughts out of her mind, pictures of Larry Delaney took their place. And Kirsty didn’t quite know what to do with those thoughts except push them away. They were pointless and stupid.

Larry Delaney had once told her that she knew absolutely nothing about him. And he was right. And the little bits she had come to know about him didn’t make any sense to her. All they did was tell her that he lived in a very different world from hers. A world filled with people like Fiona and Helen McCluskey.

Kirsty had so many questions that she wanted to ask him. But the more she knew of him, the more she was afraid of the answers. The things she had already found out made her think that the clever Larry Delaney she knew and liked – and had even fancied – was really a total stranger. A stranger who had a lot of secrets.

She knew now that he had a young son by Helen McCluskey, but she knew nothing about the relationship or what they had meant to each other. It was quite possible, Kirsty thought, that they had been married. For all she knew they might still be married. She looked out of the car window as the bright lights of Motherwell approached, feeling young and foolish and very naïve.

There were so many things that she didn’t know and didn’t really understand. Like this terrible nightmare with Gerry. Like the situation with Larry and Helen McCluskey – how they could still speak and be polite and civil to each
other even though something terrible had happened betwee
n them.

Kirsty wondered how people like those dark-haired McClus­key women could go about talking and acting in such an uppity way when Helen obviously had either an illegitimate child or a broken marriage behind her. She and her older sister showed no signs of embarrassment or shame at the situation she was obviously in. The girls and women she knew from Rowanhill who had made mistakes like that tended to keep a very low profile. They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves and their mistakes by parading themselves around the place.

Take Liz Mullen for example. Now she was pregnant, Liz wouldn’t be out and about so much, she would go to work and come home and concentrate all her spare time on the plans for her small wedding and her future home. She wouldn’t mention her plans unless directly asked, and she certainly wouldn’t be bringing up the subject to anyone she happened to meet.

If it had been the big white wedding that was saved and planned for, the whole Mullen family would have been talking loudly and proudly about it from the day the engagement was announced. When it was quiet and hushed and the bride-to-be and her family wouldn’t meet th
eir eyes when they were congratulated on the forthcomi
ng nuptials, people would quickly realise that there was something more than romance and love hastening the event. And then they would say no more.

Everyone had someone in their family who had let the side down one way or another. Kirsty thought now of her beautiful Auntie Claire who had caused all the gossip in Rowanhill by going her own way. She hadn’t been pregnant but she had done something that was probably deemed worse as far as the more pious parishioners were concerned. She hadn’t made a mistake of the flesh that any silly girl or woman could make – she had made a cold, calculating decision to turn her back on her religion and her class. And that wouldn’t be forgotten, not in Rowanhill. The rejection was a black mark on Claire and the family that would never be forgiven.