Belfast Girls Page 13

  “Agreed,” said Gerry quickly. “Then, if you will have the necessary changes made to this document, I shall advise my client to accept your offer. Miss Doherty, you will wish to read the document yourself.”

  He coughed importantly again and passed Sheila the contract.

  “If you aren’t in a great hurry, my secretary can make the changes to the contract on her word processor in a very short time,” said Delmara. “Meanwhile, perhaps another cup of coffee. Or may I suggest a glass of wine to drink to our future? Our joint future?”

  Sheila sat back and sipped her white wine while the contract was adjusted and listened with half an ear to Delmara’s chat, occasionally making a comment.

  She looked relaxed and in control, but inwardly her mind was buzzing.

  She had agreed and was about to sign something that would change her life. By the end of the year she would be in Dublin, taking part in a major fashion show, at the start of a career which might lead anywhere.

  But strangely enough, these were not the thoughts which were uppermost in her mind. Instead, she was thinking of the gleam in Francis Delmara’s eye as he raised his glass to their ‘joint future’.

  What exactly did he have in mind? Sheila was aware that she would have to be very careful. Delmara was a dangerous man, dangerously attractive. He was determined to get what he wanted. If, as she had every reason to believe, Sheila herself was part of what he wanted, she would have her work cut out making sure that he did not get it.

  Especially as she knew that, in some moods, she was more than half on his side.

  She sipped her wine, gazing round at the carpet, the picture on the wall, anything, principally from a determination not to look Delmara in the eye too often or too seriously.

  As she did so, there rose up in her mind again, unbidden, the face of John Branagh, never long absent.

  What would John think of her new career?

  He was bound to hear of it sooner or later, through Mary if in no other way.

  Sheila felt instinctively that he would hate it. If, that was, he cared at all, by now. What did it matter? After that scene by the river, she and John were irrevocably finished. She would never trust herself to a man who could behave like that, even if his opinion of her changed enough to make him want her again.

  And after his reaction to seeing her at the Beauty Contest, nothing seemed less likely.

  She could not be more finally separated from him by becoming a model than she already was.

  The memory of John’s hatred for her fell like a cloud over the bright summer afternoon.

  Sheila bit her lip hard, swallowed the rest of her wine in one defiant gulp, and yet again tried determinedly to put John Branagh completely out of her mind.

  Chapter Thirty

  Third year, and the new term, had already arrived by the time Mary went with Orla Greaves to the meeting she had spoken of.

  It was evening and darkness was beginning to fall.

  The lights gleamed on the wet pavement as Mary and Orla walked down Elmwood Avenue at the side of the Students’ Union to the Church of Ireland Centre.

  Mary felt rather nervous.

  “What do I have to do?” she asked Orla.

  Orla smiled her rare smile. Her dark grey eyes, burning under the heavy eyebrows, regarded Mary seriously.

  “Don't worry,” she said. She smiled her warm smile again and Mary felt oddly comforted.

  “You don't have to do anything,” Orla said, “unless you want to. There are no rules here.”

  They went into the Church of the Resurrection. About twenty people were sitting around chatting. They had pulled some chairs into a rough circle and it looked unexpectedly informal to Mary’s eyes.

  “Hello there, come and sit down,” said a young dark-haired man in a clerical collar.

  “Hi, everybody, this is Mary,” said Orla, sitting down on an empty chair and pulling another one over beside her. “Come and sit down, Mary.”

  “Hi, Mary!” said a number of voices.

  Orla went round the circle, giving a string of names for Mary’s benefit, not one of which stayed with her for more than a moment.

  She was aware of bright, friendly faces and a general attitude of welcome.

  “Perhaps we should make a start,” said the man in the clerical collar.

  Someone struck a chord on a guitar and everyone began to sing.

  Mary noticed in surprise that everyone sang with their eyes closed. Some were holding up their hands as if ready to receive something. She tentatively closed her own eyes.

  Mary didn’t know the song but the words were very simple and repetitive and, when they came to the end, the group just began again, and kept on singing. After a while, Mary found that she was familiar enough with the words to join in.

  “He is Lord

  He is Lord

  He is risen from the dead.

  And He is Lord ..."

  As she sang, she felt a great peace beginning to invade her.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  For Phil, the months passed slowly. She had moved back home, saying nothing to Davy about her reasons, giving a vague excuse about needing to work. She sat exams at the end of the summer term, did fairly well, and waited for the results. She saw much less of Davy. Work had made a good excuse. The flat had become a place with bad associations. She no longer wanted to spend time there.

  The summer passed, the new term began.

  Davy did not seem to notice. It was incredible to Phil that he could be so blind. Didn’t he realise she was going through an emotional turmoil?

  But Davy was becoming more and more deeply involved with O’Brien and his drug ring. He did not speak of this to Phil after a few early attempts at justification which met with outright rejection. Phil saw things differently from him. It was no use to talk to her but the end of open communication between them put a strain on their relationship which he had not foreseen.

  Gone were the days when they argued cheerfully about everything under the sun and always ended in the harmonious agreement that it was ‘time things were changed’. Davy and Phil drifted silently further apart until neither fully understood any more, what the other thought or felt.

  One day when the autumn was already almost over, and Phil realised with a shock that almost a week had passed since she last saw Davy, she decided the time had come to make some decisions. She was not willing to continue with this situation. Either they must make a clean break or they must try to get back unto the old footing. She would go and see Davy and make him talk to her, and then – well, they would see what happened.

  Phil rang Davy’s number but got no answer. The best thing was to go over to the flat where she could be sure of catching Davy sooner or later.

  It was early evening when she reached Thomas Street. Davy might possibly be home by now and making himself something to eat. She still had her key and, when there was no answer to her ring, Phil let herself in through the unlocked front door which was the common entrance for all occupants of the house and went upstairs to unlock the door which closed off Davy’s share of the building.

  She went in familiarly and sat down on the shabby old sofa in the living room. Throwing her bag on the floor beside her, she leaned back with a sigh, preparing to wait.

  She was in too tense an emotional state to pick up one of the many books scattered around and pass the time by reading, although normally that would have been her automatic solace in such a situation. Instead, she rested her head against the back of the sofa, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

  There were noises coming from the kitchen. It took Phil a few minutes to realise this, but suddenly it sank in. The vague rustlings, not at first identified as someone moving about, abruptly culminated in a rattling noise too loud to be mistaken for anything but the sound of another person’s presence.

  Phil’s first thought was that Davy was there after all and hadn’t heard her ring. She jumped to her feet and headed for the kitchen, calling out, �
�Hey, half-wit! Why didn’t you answer the bell?”

  Halfway along the passage way she froze, her mouth dropping open, and speech dying on her lips.

  The kitchen door opened quickly and a man stood there looking at her – the man she had seen before with Davy in Botanic Gardens. Sean, that was his name. A man who had some connection with O’Brien, the drug dealer.

  “Oh – sorry – I thought it was Davy,” she said, when she had recovered the power of speech.

  The man said nothing.

  “I’m Phil, Davy’s girl-friend, you remember?” Phil babbled nervously. “I suppose you don’t know if he’ll be back soon? I meant to wait, but if he isn’t going to be here until late, I might just go on ..."

  “How did you get in?” the stranger asked abruptly. He was a man of medium height, thin, with sandy hair beginning to turn grey, but with a pale face with heavy jowls and thick eyebrows which gave a scowling intensity to his words.

  “I have a key,” Phil said.

  “I didn’t know anyone else had a key to this place,” the man said.

  Phil said nothing. For a moment they stood staring at each other. Then came noises on the stairs, footsteps approaching, and a bang on the door. Davy’s voice could be heard calling cheerfully,

  “Sean! Sean! It’s me, Davy! Let me in!”

  Phil thought, “He lent his key to this Sean, otherwise he could get in without knocking.” She moved back down the passageway to the door and opened it, and Davy came in. He was carrying a paper parcel which smelt like fish and chips. His expression of shock on seeing Phil holding the door open would have been ludicrous if Phil had felt like laughing.

  Davy recovered himself quickly. “Phil – good. I didn’t know you were coming. You’ve met Sean before, haven’t you? He’s staying over with me for a day or two. Listen, let’s you and me go out for a snack and a quick pint. Sean can stay here and make do on the carry-out, okay?”

  “Okay,” said the man called Sean. His face, like the face of a good poker player, gave away none of his feelings.

  Phil allowed Davy to shepherd her out of the flat. Outside, she turned to face him.

  “Davy. It’s time we had a chance to talk. There are things we have to say. Both of us. This episode today just underlines the need.”

  “Okay, Phil," said Davy. He seemed irritated but not, Phil thought, at her. More at the way things had happened. “Let’s go down to the Bot.”

  They sat in the Botanic Inn with glasses of lager in front of them and tried to communicate. Phil felt hopeless.

  “I don't want to get in your way,” she said.

  “You couldn’t,” Davy said positively. “How could you? You and I belong together, kiddo.”

  “Do we?” said Phil. “We seem quite far apart in a lot of ways now, Davy. I know your ideas have changed. We haven’t talked much about it. Perhaps you could try to tell me where you're at these days? All I know is you’re into something that takes up most of your time and energy and, unless I’m prepared to be in it too, we’re bound to be apart too much. Not just because we never have time to see each other but – you know – because we’re growing apart in our thoughts and feelings too.”

  “Yes. I know.” Davy was silent for a moment, staring into his glass.

  “There are things I want to talk to you about, Phil,” he said, presently, “but not here. And we can’t go back to the flat with Sean there. Let’s go for a walk down by the embankment. It seems a long time since we’ve done that. Maybe I can explain to you where I’m coming from, and maybe you can think about it.”

  The trees along the Embankment had lost their leaves and stretched slim beautiful arms towards the pale moon, still bright against the half light of the early evening sky of late October. They reminded Phil of the many times she and Davy had walked under the same trees with the moonlight reflected sometimes on the slight new leaves of spring, sometimes on the thick leaves of summer, and the shimmer of water nearby; when they had first come together and everything had seemed new and beautiful.

  They walked hand in hand in a strange return to innocence and Davy tried to explain.

  “You see, Phil, I’ve always believed people have a right to recreational drugs if they want them. What right has the law to ban them? They claim drugs do so much harm. But what about drink? Doesn’t it do just as much if it’s misused? The whole idea is to treat us like children, Phil, with a set of rules laid down for us by the so-called adults that we have to obey. But we have the right to be treated as adults ourselves, adults who can make their own decisions and use either drugs or drink in their own way, okay?” he said passionately. “The other thing isn’t working – it’s like Prohibition in America. When you put the use of drugs outside the law, everybody wants to use them even more. The only way then is to break the rules.”

  Phil tried not to jump in quickly with an argument. This was too important.

  “I see what you’re saying, Davy,” she answered after a moment. “I do, really. But doesn’t supplying these drugs cause endless misery? Isn’t it a vicious circle? Won’t it only make things worse?”

  “Yes, perhaps, if people are stupid,” Davy explained eagerly. “But that’s the thing, Phil. If we would only make drugs legal, it would be so different. We daren’t do less. If we let it drag on, it will escalate and get worse, as you say. Nobody wants that.”

  “But, Davy – the people who are suffering are innocent victims. Often they are the very people you say you want to help. Justice isn’t an abstract thing, it means actual people having better lives. But it’s actual people who are worse and worse off because of drugs. It isn’t some sort of game.”

  “You don’t understand, Phil,” he broke in, stopping and turning to face her as the pent-up emotion he had tried to control took over.

  “There are always casualties in any fight! I want to win freedom for you and me, Phil. Why shouldn’t we make some money out of this crazy situation, enough money to get away, out of this rat race? How many ways are there to do that – to get enough to escape?”

  “Davy,” said Phil gently, “it’s me you’re talking to, not an audience. Don’t preach at me. The victims in this case are your own innocent countrymen. Even your friends. What about Mary Branagh? She was nearly dead! Doing something which claims to make life better for people and ends up killing them doesn’t even make sense to me! And we don’t need to escape, to run away. All we need to do is to sort out our lives here!”

  They stood, glaring at each other, battle lines drawn up. Then Phil broke.

  “Oh, Davy! Let's not fight. I promise to go home and think about it. But won’t you promise me to think about what I’ve said?”

  Davy looked down at the path and then at the water beside them. The moon had brightened as they talked and now shone down at them from a clear, dark, autumn sky.

  “I will think about it, kiddo,” he said slowly. “But in a way, it’s a bit late. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t find it easy to draw back now. I know things, I’ve been told things. I’m not sure they’d let anyone walk away knowing the things I know. That’s one reason I’ve kept you at arm’s length for the past few months, Phil. There are levels of knowledge I don’t want you mixed up in. The risk is too great. Even today, seeing Sean at the flat – I wish that hadn’t happened. I’ll tell him when I get back that you don’t know anything and that, even if you guessed, you could be trusted. But don’t go there again without me, dear. Promise.”

  Phil promised in a shaky voice.

  “It’s being used as a halfway house to store stuff, you see,” said Davy very quietly. “And I didn’t tell you that. But you’re not such a moron that you hadn’t guessed. So now, forget all about it.”

  Phil nodded silently. Davy put his arm round her, drew her close and kissed her. It was a very gentle kiss and it went on for a long time. To Phil, it meant more than all the talking. For the first time in weeks, she felt close to Davy again. It seemed possible that they might be able to maintain the delic
ate balance of their lives, in spite of everything.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mary and Orla walked beside the river and talked about life.

  It was late autumn, almost winter, in their third year. The air was fresh and cool and the sun still held the remains of the day's unusual warmth as it sparkled off the ripples in the quiet water.

  “What will you do when you finish your degree?” Mary asked.

  Orla had no doubt or hesitation. Her curious dark grey eyes shone beneath the thick, heavy brows.

  “I’m going to Africa to help the developing countries out there. Perhaps the Sudan – or perhaps not. It will depend which door God opens up at the right time.”

  “And how will you help them?” asked Mary curiously.

  “I hope by then I’ll be qualified to teach some of what I’ve learned myself. That’s why I chose to do Science. Science is the gateway to so many opportunities for the developing countries today. Education is one of the chief needs. When people are educated, they can help themselves.”

  Orla’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm, her thin bony face lit up by an inner fire.

  “It sounds good,” Mary agreed.

  “People are starving, Mary. Just for lack of the elementary knowledge to allow them to manage their country well, to produce a livelihood. It sickens me to realise the luxury we live in here, compared to two thirds of the world. We need to help in whatever way we can.”

  “Is that why you dress the way you do?” Mary teased. “All out of the second hand shops, so you can send all your spare money to Africa?”

  “Yes, since you ask,” Orla replied calmly. “What do clothes matter, compared to saving the life, or the eyesight, of a child?”

  Mary felt humbled, though she was clear that Orla had not intended any rebuke.

  They walked on in silence for a moment.

  “Wouldn't it be better to teach some basic farming methods, then?” Mary suggested. “Or to do medicine and go out as a doctor?”