Belfast Girls Page 3

  One bright evening in late spring, Phil lay on her front on Sheila's bed with her shoes kicked off, propped on her elbows and smoking furiously, and talked non stop about her latest boyfriend, Davy Hagan.

  “Why can't he turn up when he says he will?” she asked. “Last night I waited nearly an hour outside the pictures for him! I don't take that from anyone.”

  “What did you do?” asked Sheila. She was sitting beside the window on the chest with the quilted top which Kathy called the Ottoman, smoking with less assurance. She had only recently taken up smoking and was about ready to drop it again for good. She was on the alert to open the window and, she hoped, disperse the smoky atmosphere quickly, at any sign of her mother's approach.

  “I went in by myself,” said Phil sharply. “Sammy Hunter was there and, when he saw me, he came over and asked if he could sit with me, and I was so mad I said yes. Now I’ll have Sammy round my neck for the next few weeks till I convince him it was just a one night stand.” Sitting with someone at the pictures, as Sheila well knew, was a euphemism for a kissing session.

  “I can't make out,” Phil went on, “if Davy’s interested in me or not. Why would he ask me out and then not turn up? I suppose he thinks I’m just a kid? I think I’ll stop fancying him and go for someone else. But all the boys I know are so young! Maybe there’ll be some talent at Mary’s birthday party on Friday night.”

  “Well, he is a lot older,” Sheila said reasonably. “After all, he’s sitting his A levels and he’ll be starting University this October.”

  “So what?” said Phil. “We’ll be there ourselves, at Queen’s, in a couple of years!”

  “I won’t if I don't get this Geography revision done,” sighed Sheila. “It’s all right for you, Phil, you’ll sail through everything.”

  “Sister Attracta doesn’t think so,” said Phil, giggling. “You should have heard what she said to me the other day. ‘Philomena,’” she proceeded, making her voice into a squeaky imitation of the nun’s, “‘you'll be the death of me. You need to pull your socks up or it’s washing dishes in Burger King you’ll end up instead of university.’ She seems to think life should be nothing but work, work, work.”

  Sheila giggled, too. “Who else is going on Friday night?” she asked.

  “Oh, everybody,” said Phil vaguely. “It should be a laugh.”

  Sheila felt excitement welling up in her.

  Anything might happen.

  In fact, something was going to happen that would change her life.

  Chapter Five

  Mary Branagh’s house, which was noticeably bigger than Sheila’s or Phil’s, was full of people when they arrived there on the Friday night.

  There were double doors between the two front rooms and these were thrown open to allow extra space and movement for the guests. Mary’s parents, who were an easy-going couple, gave her more freedom than either Sheila or Phil were used to at home. They hadn’t gone out but they were keeping to the small back sitting room and allowing Mary to run her own party, a celebration of her sixteenth birthday.

  There were soft drinks provided and a finger buffet, and Mary had the use of the stereo system to play her own choice of music. It was more like a grown up party than anything Sheila or Phil had been to before. They were both excited. Sheila didn’t know Mary very well. She was more Phil’s friend. Mary had a reputation for wildness – her party was expected to be different from the usual run. Anything could happen.

  Or so they hoped.

  Phil was anxious to see if Davy Hagan would turn up. In spite of her threats to Sheila, she had no intention of forgetting him. He was in a different league from the boys of their own age who pursued her eagerly. He was older, he had the use of a car – his mother’s – and he was said to run with a dangerous crowd. Phil, who had so far met none of his other friends, was not quite sure what was dangerous about them, but it all added to Davy’s fascination. She had bullied Mary into inviting him on the excuse that he was in the same form as Mary’s brother John, who would certainly be at the party with some of his friends.

  Sheila was fizzing with excited anticipation. She had been allowed a new frock for the occasion, in a dark blue shade which flattered her hair. As she left childhood behind, she had thankfully observed that its bright ginger had darkened slightly to a more attractive colour. It still seemed to her a notable handicap but at least boys no longer shouted, “Hey, Ginger, do you snap?” after her in the streets. Recently she had even noticed a tendency in them to whistle after her instead. If only she wasn't so tall. She sometimes felt that she towered over every boy she had ever known.

  Mary greeted them at the door and accepted their birthday presents – perfume and a necklace – with unconcealed glee.

  “Wait till you see what I've got!” she whispered dramatically. “Come over here where people can’t see.” She dragged Sheila and Phil into the kitchen and produced a bottle which had been hidden in a wall cupboard behind some saucepans. Sheila looked at it in some bewilderment.

  “Vodka!” said Mary triumphantly. “I’m going to add it to the orange juice and we’ll have screwdrivers – that's what it’s called.”

  Sheila, who was actually rather shocked, did her best to arrange her face into an expression of pleasure. Phil managed a more blasé reaction.

  “Lime would be better,” she instructed Mary, “then you have what’s called a gimlet – much more sophisticated.”

  “Let’s try one now, anyway,” Mary giggled. She took three tumblers of the type used for whiskey from a glass fronted cupboard and poured a generous measure of vodka into each glass, topping it up with orange juice from the fridge.

  “Shouldn't you measure it or something?” asked Sheila nervously.

  “Don’t be daft – knock it back!” said Mary blithely. “Happy birthday to me!” She raised her glass to them, then drank deeply.

  Sheila and Phil followed suit. It tasted to Sheila much like any other glass of orange juice and she finished it quite quickly. She had begun to suspect that Mary’s ‘vodka’ was really only water.

  It was halfway through the evening, and several ‘screwdrivers’ later, that she realised her mistake as her head began to swim. The noise of the music, the chatter, and the laughter seemed to have been turned up to full volume, and the lights and colours were brighter and more dazzling.

  She was dancing with Phil’s brother, Gerry Maguire. It wasn’t very exciting, since she knew him so well but it was better by a mile than sitting at the side of the room as a wallflower, watching everybody else dance past her. Suddenly there was a sound of new arrivals at the front door. Mary’s laugh could be heard above the loud music and the voices, and then, amid more noise and bustle, three or four older boys came in from the hall.

  Sheila was pleased for Phil’s sake to see Davy Hagan. She had begun to be afraid that he wasn’t going to show up. Phil had been flirting noisily and defiantly with all and sundry, clearly determined not to show that she was upset by his non-appearance. The other boys were strangers to Sheila. She tried to make herself look smaller in case any of them looked at her.

  “Who are the boys who came in just now with Davy, Gerry?” she asked her partner.

  “The dark one is Mary’s brother, John Branagh,” Gerry told her. “The sandy fella is Geordie Flanagan. He’s supposed to be involved with the drug barons, you know, the Belfast Mafia, that’s taken over from the paramilitaries now we’ve got so-called ‘peace’, and I don’t know the fair one’s name. Wait a minute, yes I do, it’s Tomas O’Dade, he goes to our school, too. They’re all in Upper Sixth."

  Sheila looked at Mary’s brother with interest. He didn’t look very like Mary who was small and blonde. He was quite tall, of a slim but muscular build, dark haired and very good looking, with a thin, bony face. There was something about his eyes, under their long sweeping lashes, a glint of something like mockery, which she found attractive. Perhaps if she wasn’t so tall he would ask her to dance. He would be taller than her,
she thought, by at least a bit.

  “John's going on for the priesthood,” Gerry added.

  Sheila sagged suddenly. She had never heard Mary mention that. It was the first time she had come across anyone who was going to be a priest. He didn’t look any different from anyone else but, if he was going to be a priest, he was out of the running. She would be wasting her time thinking of him as attractive – even though he was. Probably they didn’t dance, either. For a moment she felt strangely cast down.

  “Sheila!” said Gerry Maguire suddenly.

  “What?” asked Sheila vaguely.

  “Why don’t you hold yourself up straight?”

  Sheila flushed miserably. “I do,” she lied.

  “No, you don’t – at least, sometimes you do. Don’t you know that you’re the best looking girl in the room, especially when you hold yourself up?”

  Sheila gaped at him.

  “I mean it,” Gerry went on. “You need to get some confidence in yourself – if you did that, you’d knock them all sideways.”

  Sheila found it difficult to believe her ears. Was Gerry serious? Yes, his flushed face and determined air made it clear that he was.

  “Oh, thank you, Gerry!” she said, smiling at him unbelievingly.

  “How about another drink, Sheila?”

  “Okay,” she said, suddenly reckless. Gerry, like Mary, had an unlabelled bottle with him which he had managed to procure from somewhere or other, and which was said to contain some sort of spirits. They went over to the buffet and half filled fresh glasses with coke, then Gerry unobtrusively added something to both glasses from his bottle.

  “Here's looking at you, kid!” he said, raising his glass to Sheila.

  Sheila giggled.

  “Play it again, Sam,” she said, aware that it wasn’t quite the right answer but feeling that at least it was in the same general area. A little later, when her head was spinning a little more, and the lights seemed even brighter, but at the same time more distant, she allowed Gerry to persuade her out into Mary’s garden and they kissed enthusiastically, if inexpertly, for some time. But when Gerry tried to go further, Sheila pulled away sharply and was angry.

  A confused feeling in her head connected this reluctance with John Branagh.

  But how stupid that would be. She reminded herself again that to John Branagh, girls as girlfriends just didn’t exist. No point in thinking about him.

  And Gerry was really nice.

  But it didn’t make any difference. She didn’t mind kissing Gerry, okay, but that was it.

  As he tried again to get further with her, slipping his arm round so that his hand could encircle her breast, she pushed him away and ran indoors.

  For some weeks afterwards, she refused to speak to Gerry until time papered over the crack in their relationship and they returned to their previous footing of undemanding friendship.

  If she had been given an opportunity to speak to John Branagh, priest or no, Sheila thought, and to establish some sort of relationship with him, that might have been very different.

  Chapter Six

  The party threw Phil and Davy Hagan together again. They spent the evening with each other and, afterwards, when Davy took Phil home, he invited her to go to the pictures with him the following weekend.

  Once the exams were over, and they had the summer before them, their dates became a regular, accepted thing. Davy borrowed his mother’s car, and took Phil for drives. They went to Bangor, Carrickfergus and, once, leaving earlier in the afternoon, as far afield as Portrush on the north coast.

  The evenings developed their own pattern. They talked and laughed together, stopped the car and walked for an hour or so, then as dusk crept around, stroking their cheeks seductively with velvet fingers, they would take the car to some secluded spot and spend as much time as possible kissing.

  As the months went by, these sessions developed into more and more of a struggle. Phil was determined not to go much beyond kissing. Davy, for his part, wanted more and more to go further. Phil found her will power being gradually eroded.

  She and Sheila still shared all their secrets, and they talked together about the situation.

  “If I could be sure he wouldn’t just drop me once he got what he wanted,” Phil would sigh. “If I knew he didn’t just want to boast about it to the other boys …”

  “You wouldn’t want everyone to say you were easy, Phil,” Sheila encouraged her. “It would be horrible to know people were talking about you the way they do about Maureen Connor.”

  Maureen Connor had the reputation of being ready to sleep with anyone, and both Sheila and Phil knew that, although boys queued up to take her out, the remarks they made about her afterwards were mostly unpleasant. Even now, girls who slept around were ‘sluts’, or ‘tarts’, or worse.

  “But I really want to, Sheila,” Phil confessed. “That’s the trouble. If I could be sure he was serious about me, I’d give in like a shot. But then suppose I had a baby!”

  “That would be just the end,” agreed Sheila with a shudder.

  One hot evening in August, Phil and Davy drove up to the grounds of Belfast Castle, parked the car, and climbed to the higher reaches of the Cave Hill. It was a beautiful evening. The heather hill stretched far around them on all sides, and down below was the breathtaking view of Belfast Lough, gleaming silver and pink in the rays of the setting sun. The air was saturated with the scent of heather and pine. Phil’s heart felt near to bursting point, swelling with a mixture of romantic longings and simple sexual desire.

  Davy put his arms round her and drew her down onto the soft, grassy hillside. They were so completely alone that they might have been the only people left in the world.

  “Oh, Phil,” he said in a soft murmur, “don’t hold me off any more.”

  Davy was aware of a strange mingling of emotions. He knew that Phil mattered to him in a way no other girl had ever mattered. He didn’t want to do anything to hurt her. Alongside this feeling was a strong belief, ingrained over the years, that a boy should always try to persuade a girl to go as far as possible, that it was something which was expected of him, and that he should try to chalk up as many sexual triumphs as possible. But stronger than any of this, overwhelming in its effect, was his desire for the warm, soft body he held in his arms.

  He began to kiss her and to stroke her back gently. Phil felt herself slipping away. Was it worth holding out any longer? She felt sure that she really loved Davy. Was it really so wrong to be so close to him, to be even closer?

  Then she felt a familiar twinge in her stomach. She had almost forgotten – but, yes, it must be.

  “I’m sorry, Davy,” she told him. “But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tonight. I’d forgotten that my period was due and I’m afraid it’s just started.”

  Davy sprang to his feet and walked away from her.

  “Hell!” he said.

  He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, pulled out the packet, and lit one for himself without offering them to Phil. He stood with his back to her some yards away, looking down over the Lough. Then, eventually, he turned round, and with an effort said, “Well, it can’t be helped. We may as well go back, now.”

  “Have you got any tissues?”

  “Me? No, what would I have tissues for?”

  “I might have some in my bag. Sling it over will you?”

  Phil spoke coldly. She was angry at Davy’s attitude. Fumbling in her bag, she found a handful of tissues and stuffed them down the front of her jeans, inside her pants. She felt the pain of cramps coming on but was unwilling to mention this to Davy in case he thought she was looking for sympathy. If he didn’t care, then he didn’t. So what?

  They walked back down to where the car was parked in silence. Phil was still angry. It wasn’t her fault that she had a period, was it? She said nothing, waiting for Davy to speak, to apologise, to sympathise, or even just to make some friendly remark. But they reached the car without any word from him and he dropped her
home with only a brief, “Bye, then. See you soon.”

  A week later, Sheila saw Davy Hagan having coffee with a girl she didn’t know. She said nothing to Phil about it. Other friends were less careful, however. Before long, Phil knew that Davy was going out with a girl called Julie Simmons.

  “Well,” said Sheila, “she may not be Maureen Connor, but I’ve heard that she’s the next best thing.”

  “That's one of the most spiteful things I’ve ever heard you say, Sheila Doherty,” Phil retorted, grinning. “You don't have to pull the girl to pieces just for me. What do I care who Davy Hagan sees?”

  All the same, it seemed to Sheila that Phil was a lot quieter these days. Then she started going out with boys again, on the basis of “Let’s see how many I can get this term.”

  Sheila found it worrying.

  Chapter Seven

  Eighteen, and going to Queen’s!

  Sheila was on top of the world, floating above the clouds in the sunshine. She found herself breaking out into grins as she walked along the road, and passers-by smiled back at her indulgently.

  She was on her way to the Freshers’ Reception, held in the Great Hall of the university, and anticipation was mingled in her mind with apprehension at being on her own. For various reasons, none of her friends had planned to be there.

  Although it was October and already some of the leaves on the huge trees that lined University Road were offering a choice of yellow and orange and brown as well as the predominant green, it was a bright, sunny day, not hot but still pleasantly mild. The enormous Victorian Gothic building that was Queen’s University loomed up on Sheila’s left, beautiful and hugely impressive.