save us a bit of that!”
There were two of them in uniform, RAF. One tall and quite dark; he jumps up on to the railing and sits there swinging his legs and he’s the one doing all the shouting. His friend turns away, has his back to us, saying nothing. He’s shorter, kind of sandy auburn hair. Well, Theresa’s not a bit backward in coming forward and she shouts, “Why, what’s it worth?”
“What will you take?” says the dark one.
“Away on with you! I don’t even know you.” Theresa shouts back.
‘Next thing, the dark one’s over the rail and running down the slope towards us, while his friend walks the long way round and down the steps. They’ve got fish and chips. You know how it is, when you smell the newspaper wet with vinegar and you start to drool and you’d do anything for a chip.’
‘Oh aye …’ Myrtle nodded her head in a knowing way.
‘No, it wasn’t like that. We shared the food and they had some beer and we had some brown lemonade. The dark one was called Tommy and his sandy friend was, you’ve guessed it, Sandy. They were based just outside Stranraer.’
‘God, were they pilots?’ asked Myrtle.
Irene laughed. ‘No, they weren’t posh or anything. They were radio engineers.’
‘Sounds posh enough to me. So, what happened then?’
‘Tommy was really taken with Theresa and after a while Sandy said he was going down to the harbour to look at the fishing boats. He nodded at me as if to say come on. I knew what he meant, Theresa and Tommy had forgotten we were there sitting like dummies, while they made eyes at each other.’
‘And did you like this Sandy?’ Myrtle leaned forward now as if Irene might be about to reveal some secret.
‘Ach he was nice enough, a bit quiet. We walked along the harbour wall. He had his hands in his pockets looking at his feet. He told me he was from the North East of Scotland. Right enough, his accent was very strong, hard to make out sometimes. He stopped and talked to some wee boys who were fishing. I watched him. He looked happy, down on his hunkers looking at the fish they’d caught, helped one boy get a fish off the hook. He stood up then and smiled at me, a nice smile, one that you’d give a friend.’
The light had faded, but Myrtle was reluctant to draw the black out curtains and turn on the light, feeling that it might signal the end of the story. Irene went to the window and leaned her head against the pane, trying to conjure up Sandy’s face. Finally, she turned.
‘Time to get ready, ay?’
‘Aye, in a minute,’ said Myrtle. ‘Finish your story. What happened then?’
‘Nothing. It was time to get the boat home. We walked back to Theresa and Tommy, but just before we reached them he stopped and said, “I’m going to be posted overseas again soon. Can I write to you?”
‘I wondered what he’d find to say in a letter, when he’d hardly spoken to me in the hour we’d spent together, but he had a nice smile so I said yes.’
‘So really he’s a pen pal?’
‘That was the idea. Trouble is, he never wrote.’
‘Ah well, sure never mind,’ said Myrtle. ‘Come on, let’s get ourselves dolled up and see what make of man we can meet the night.’
*
John Dossor’s was one of the best night spots in Belfast: resident band, dancing, even lessons for those wanting to do more than shuffle round the floor. It was on the corner of Victoria Street close to the Albert Clock which leaned like the Tower of Pisa on its sandy foundations. Above the door was a banner proclaiming: ‘Grand Halloween Dance’ and inside a flight of narrow, dimly lit stairs ran up to the first floor where an elderly lady in a hair net and rouged cheeks sat behind a table, taking the money and stamping hands.
‘Keep on the right side a her,’ whispered Myrtle, ‘if ye don’t want te be barred.’
On the first floor there were dance studios and posters advertised lessons at one and six an hour. ‘Up again to the dance,’ said Myrtle. Irene turned to follow her
There were two of them in uniform, RAF. One tall and quite dark; he jumps up on to the railing and sits there swinging his legs and he’s the one doing all the shouting. His friend turns away, has his back to us, saying nothing. He’s shorter, kind of sandy auburn hair. Well, Theresa’s not a bit backward in coming forward and she shouts, “Why, what’s it worth?”
“What will you take?” says the dark one.
“Away on with you! I don’t even know you.” Theresa shouts back.
‘Next thing, the dark one’s over the rail and running down the slope towards us, while his friend walks the long way round and down the steps. They’ve got fish and chips. You know how it is, when you smell the newspaper wet with vinegar and you start to drool and you’d do anything for a chip.’
‘Oh aye …’ Myrtle nodded her head in a knowing way.
‘No, it wasn’t like that. We shared the food and they had some beer and we had some brown lemonade. The dark one was called Tommy and his sandy friend was, you’ve guessed it, Sandy. They were based just outside Stranraer.’
‘God, were they pilots?’ asked Myrtle.
Irene laughed. ‘No, they weren’t posh or anything. They were radio engineers.’
‘Sounds posh enough to me. So, what happened then?’
‘Tommy was really taken with Theresa and after a while Sandy said he was going down to the harbour to look at the fishing boats. He nodded at me as if to say come on. I knew what he meant, Theresa and Tommy had forgotten we were there sitting like dummies, while they made eyes at each other.’
‘And did you like this Sandy?’ Myrtle leaned forward now as if Irene might be about to reveal some secret.
‘Ach he was nice enough, a bit quiet. We walked along the harbour wall. He had his hands in his pockets looking at his feet. He told me he was from the North East of Scotland. Right enough, his accent was very strong, hard to make out sometimes. He stopped and talked to some wee boys who were fishing. I watched him. He looked happy, down on his hunkers looking at the fish they’d caught, helped one boy get a fish off the hook. He stood up then and smiled at me, a nice smile, one that you’d give a friend.’
The light had faded, but Myrtle was reluctant to draw the black out curtains and turn on the light, feeling that it might signal the end of the story. Irene went to the window and leaned her head against the pane, trying to conjure up Sandy’s face. Finally, she turned.
‘Time to get ready, ay?’
‘Aye, in a minute,’ said Myrtle. ‘Finish your story. What happened then?’
‘Nothing. It was time to get the boat home. We walked back to Theresa and Tommy, but just before we reached them he stopped and said, “I’m going to be posted overseas again soon. Can I write to you?”
‘I wondered what he’d find to say in a letter, when he’d hardly spoken to me in the hour we’d spent together, but he had a nice smile so I said yes.’
‘So really he’s a pen pal?’
‘That was the idea. Trouble is, he never wrote.’
‘Ah well, sure never mind,’ said Myrtle. ‘Come on, let’s get ourselves dolled up and see what make of man we can meet the night.’
*
John Dossor’s was one of the best night spots in Belfast: resident band, dancing, even lessons for those wanting to do more than shuffle round the floor. It was on the corner of Victoria Street close to the Albert Clock which leaned like the Tower of Pisa on its sandy foundations. Above the door was a banner proclaiming: ‘Grand Halloween Dance’ and inside a flight of narrow, dimly lit stairs ran up to the first floor where an elderly lady in a hair net and rouged cheeks sat behind a table, taking the money and stamping hands.
‘Keep on the right side a her,’ whispered Myrtle, ‘if ye don’t want te be barred.’
On the first floor there were dance studios and posters advertised lessons at one and six an hour. ‘Up again to the dance,’ said Myrtle. Irene turned to follow her
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