Belfast Girls Read online

  “You smoke, don’t you?” Mary asked

  “Oh, yes,” replied Sheila confidently. Hadn’t she and Phil been stealing fags from their mothers’ handbags since they were twelve, before their pocket money stretched to buying their own?

  “Here.”

  Mary handed her an already lit cigarette. It looked home-made. Sheila had seen home rolled cigarettes before. Some of the boys she knew had resorted to that when they were hard up. This one looked a lot bigger, but so what? She took the offered cigarette and had a puff. Her eyes opened wide. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and turned to stare at Mary.

  “It's –”

  “Blow. What did you think it was?” Mary asked lightly. She seemed quite unmoved.

  Sheila looked at the joint again.

  Yes, it was much longer and thicker than the hand rolled cigarettes she had seen previously. Otherwise it looked much the same. She sniffed it cautiously. The smell of cannabis was unfamiliar to her but it was clearly different from tobacco. She put the end back into her mouth and inhaled slowly.

  “Pass it on,” said Mary.

  Sheila obeyed. Then she leant back against the wall and felt good. She was relaxed, happy. There didn't seem much reason to worry. When the joint came back to her, she inhaled deeply again and felt even better.

  There was a vase of roses in shades of red and pink on the low table against the far wall. She lay back with her eyes fixed on the roses, contemplating them dreamily. They seemed to shine at her. The red petals seemed redder, and the pink, pinker, than anything she had ever seen before.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On New Year’s Eve, Mary, Sheila and a crowd of the regular party-goers went down by car to Whitehead, a quiet little seaside town with an elderly population. They parked near the sea front and walked down to the promenade in a noisy group.

  The moon shone peacefully over the sea, reflecting the ripples in a broad path. Mary stretched out her arms theatrically towards it and declaimed in a sing-song voice,

  “Oh, the moon shines bright on Mrs. Porter

  And her daughter,

  They washed their feet in soda-water …”

  before breaking into giggles halfway through.

  She and Sheila linked arms and ran wildly down the pebbly beach to the sea. Kicking off their shoes and turning up their jeans to their knees, they ran into the rippling, shallow icy-cold waves and splashed about

  “Let’s walk round the cliff path to Black Head,” someone suggested.

  Laughing and chattering, the group gathered itself together and made its way slowly along the concrete path at the edge of the shore beneath the looming cliffs which led in the direction of Islandmagee. Mary and Sheila carried their shoes in one hand waiting for their tights to dry out.

  After a while the rough surface became too uncomfortable and Sheila stopped to slip hers on again, leaning for the purpose on the arm of Charlie Flanagan, who was a regular at the parties and, Sheila thought, the main source of supply. Charlie now attempted to get his arm around Sheila when she had finished putting on her shoes, but she pushed him roughly off and ran on ahead.

  Shrugging, Charlie turned his attention instead to a more accommodating girl.

  Sheila caught up with Mary, who had wandered on by herself, and the two skipped happily along, giggling and singing to themselves. After a while, the party came to an open space where some trees grew, and Mary, who had been there before, pointed it out to Sheila.

  “That’s the Magic Forest.”

  The words seemed to be taken as a general signal to stop. Bumping into each other and looking round vaguely, the group came to a standstill. The trees formed an attractive background although they were in no sense a forest.

  “Let's go and sit down,” suggested a boy called Tim.

  Leaving the path, they wandered carelessly over the ground with its thick covering of pine needles. Presently they came to a halt in a more open place and began to settle down, in ones and twos, in some sort of rough circle under the branches. A joint was lit up and passed from hand to hand.

  The moon slanted down through the trees, lighting up the young faces, intent or dreamy. Sheila leaned back against the trunk of a tree and inhaled deeply. At some level, she was aware that this might not be the best thing to be doing. John, she knew, would be not only shocked, but angry, ragingly angry, she supposed, if he knew what she was getting into.

  So what? If John cared about what she was doing, he would have got in touch ages ago. Heaven knows, she thought bitterly, I’ve tried hard enough to contact him. He won’t even let me say I’m sorry.

  All around her, she became aware, with a heightening of her senses, of the brightness of the moonlight, the sharp smell of the pine trees, the soft, prickly feeling of each individual pine needle beneath her. Her ears picked up the gentle lapping of the waves and the rustling of the wind among the branches, and she could hear her own breathing magnified a hundred times as she focused her attention on it. The pine needles shone as if lit up by electricity, bright green mixing with gleaming bronze.

  She became aware, after what seemed to have been years, that people had begun to jump up and run and dance among the trees. There was a great deal of shouting and laughing. She sat still, feeling relaxed and at peace, with no inclination to join in.

  Then all of a sudden, a desire came over her to dance and leap and shout. She sprang to her feet, moving with a wild vigour and pleasure, and began to dart about among the trees, chasing the others, running away, coming back again.

  Without really knowing when she had first become aware of him, she realised that Charlie Flanagan was following her closely. From time to time, he reached out, trying to catch hold of her but always she managed to elude him. It became a game. As soon as Charlie came within reaching distance, she would spin happily round and escape him again.

  It was fun. Sheila found herself laughing a lot. Then suddenly it was no longer fun. Unexpectedly, Charlie managed to catch her and, before she could avoid him, he pulled her down and was lying on top of her, with his arms around her.

  The feel of his coarse, tickly hair on her cheek roused Sheila from her dream. She didn’t even like Charlie Flanagan. She found him disgusting. Thumping his back with her fists, she tried to push him to one side. But it was too hard.

  The effect of her last smoke began to kick in. She felt her head begin to whirl. Suddenly it seemed a pity to stop Charlie. With one part of her she no longer cared; with another part she quite wanted him to go on. She felt, as if at a great distance, his hand tugging at the zip of her jeans and his struggle to pull her clothes down over her hips.

  Something in Sheila pushed and struggled its way to the surface, screaming through the mist in her mind, “No! No!”

  What way out was there?

  Sheila found that Charlie had managed to undo the buttons of her blouse. Reaching under his arms to pull the material closed, her hand encountered something metal attached to her bra strap.

  Of course!

  Just before coming out, too late to stop and sew it properly, she had discovered that her bra strap had come apart and had effected hasty repairs with a large safety pin.

  Putting out all the strength she had left, she clicked the pin open and dragged it from her bra. She picked a spot high on Charlie’s inner right leg where he had pulled his jeans eagerly down and left himself unprotected by their thick cloth. She thrust the sharp point of the pin viciously home. Charlie, suddenly aware through his drugged consciousness of an agonising pain in a precious and vulnerable region, leapt clumsily to his feet screaming.

  Sheila scrambled away, crawling on hands and knees at first until she was able to stand. She ran over to Mary who was still sprawled beneath a nearby tree.

  “Let’s go,” she said abruptly. “This lout is giving me a pain.”

  But nothing to the one I just gave him, she giggled internally.

  “No rush,” said Mary dreamily. She continued to gaze at the moon, a peacefu
l smile lighting up her face, moonlight gleaming on her blonde hair.

  “Yes, there is,” said Sheila.

  She felt angry but, although she pushed at Mary, there was no noticeable reaction. Mary continued to half sit, half lie where she was, shrugging off Sheila’s hand as if she was hardly aware of it.

  It was no use.

  Sheila sat down again beside Mary, leaning against the same tree. The effects of the cannabis seemed to have worn off and she hesitated to smoke again, although another joint was circulating. When it reached her, she passed it on untouched to the nearest person.

  No-one seemed to notice or care.

  She had no desire to have any further relations with Charlie or, for that matter, with any of the other boys present. Not, to be honest, that Charlie seemed to want to have anything more to do with her! But if she smoked more blow, who knew, she wondered, how she would react if he, or any of them, grabbed her again.

  There seemed little danger of that. Charlie lay on his stomach, groaning loudly, oblivious to everything and everyone but his injury. All around her, Sheila was aware of the rest of their company, some lying down, others still moving about and exclaiming in loud voices in reaction to their heightened perception of the sky, the trees, the sea. It would be a long time before they wanted to leave.

  Sheila had permission to stay overnight with Mary for New Year’s Eve, so she was not worried about her parents expecting her back. The party, which had begun in Mary’s house, had moved on to a nearby flat in time for midnight. She had hoped to meet John at Mary’s house, but apparently he was out, working on a BBC New Year’s Eve programme. Sheila told herself she didn’t care. Then had come the suggestion of the trip to Whitehead.

  “A trip in both senses,” Mary had giggled.

  No-one seemed to expect to go home that night. Sheila shivered and pulled her jacket more tightly round her. At least it wasn’t raining. She supposed the others were insulated from the cold by the effects of the cannabis. She herself had felt warm and happy until Charlie’s attempt to get too friendly.

  Perhaps she should have another puff. It was going to be a long, cold, miserable night otherwise. But looking at Charlie lying on one side, with his arms stretched out, snoring now, she shuddered instinctively.

  Anything was better than risking a repeat of that. Surely, even if she was higher than the birds, she wouldn’t let him near her, but she knew that it was only too possible.

  That settled it. For the rest of the night, Sheila sat huddled against the pine tree, trying to get some warmth from Mary’s back which was next to hers, wishing glumly that she had stayed in instead for the family New Year party as she had always done before. At least she would have been warm, if very bored.

  Thank goodness she had stopped him in time and was still a virgin. Supposing she had got pregnant? That would have been too awful for words.

  Dawn came at last, a pale sunlight breaking over the mostly sleeping company. Hours later, they packed themselves up, and wandered back to their cars.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I told you so,” said Phil. Sheila had to admit she was right. And as for getting in touch with John Branagh again through his sister Mary, well, that had been a complete failure, hadn’t it? She could only hope John would never realise what she been doing these last months. Never again, she told herself.

  She stopped going to parties with Mary. It wasn’t worth it. She hadn’t met up with John and she realised now that if she had met him in the sort of company Mary kept, he would have hated her even more. Time to forget John, to forget Mary’s friends, to be her own person.

  She knew she had been neglecting her work, doing badly in her essays, falling behind with everything. Time to get a grip. She began to work harder, aiming to do well in her end of term exams to eventually get herself a qualification and a good job. To try to learn who she was herself, and to live her own life.

  And to forget about John Branagh.

  Sheila saw less and less of Mary as winter retreated and exams drew near. The attractions of the weekend parties had long since faded. The idea of being thrown out of University was one which she was not prepared to live with. She spent more and more time working and regularly excused herself to Mary when she suggested a Saturday night break.

  Mary, on the other hand, was showing less interest in work as the year went on. She missed classes regularly and often seemed to sit through those she attended in a dream. Sheila guessed that often Mary was tripping at these times, or recovering from the after effects. She thought it likely that Mary had moved on from cannabis to the harder drugs. She seemed to have changed from the bright, lively girl Sheila had liked. Instead, she was quiet, withdrawn, dreamy.

  Then came a stage when she became completely unpredictable. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she would explode into anger, and shout at Sheila in a way which both upset Sheila and turned her off. Mary became, from one of Sheila's closest friends, a person she would rather avoid.

  One day at the start of February they met in town to do some shopping together. Mary had had a birthday. She wanted to buy herself something nice to wear with some of her birthday money. It seemed a pleasant, normal sort of plan. Sheila looked forward to it.

  They wandered round the shops for a few hours, trying on skirts, tops and dresses, giggling and happy. Then Mary began to get jumpy. She snapped at Sheila, apologised, then a few minutes later snapped again. They were in the changing room at Principle’s at the time.

  “For goodness sake take that off! You know I wanted to try it myself!” Mary shouted. She began feverishly to pull at a pretty, lilac coloured top which Sheila was trying on, almost ripping it in the process. Sheila was afraid that the top would be damaged and that they would be forced to pay for it. Hastily she gave Mary all possible assistance to get it off, but she felt very angry with Mary.

  “People are looking at you, Mary,” she said coldly. “Calm down or I’m going – now.”

  “Sorry.” Mary rubbed her forehead, and pushed her hair back from her face in her habitual gesture. “Sorry, Sheila. Let’s go and get a cup of coffee, shall we?”

  “All right.”

  They pushed their way out of the shop and walked round to the Knightsbridge, a popular coffee bar in Donegal Square at the side of the City Hall, down at basement level. They plunged down the steps, found an empty table and ordered their coffee.

  When it came in a tall pot with wide white porcelain cups and a plate of scones, Mary sat slumped over the table nursing her cup in both hands.

  “Sorry,” she said again.

  She sat back, fished in her shoulder bag and produced a small pill container.

  “Coffee sweeteners,” she said with a grin which invited complicity. “Have one?”

  “No, thanks,” said Sheila sharply. “Mary, don’t you think you should wait till you get somewhere more private before taking that?”

  “Why?” asked Mary, in a deliberately provocative manner. “What’s so private about sweetening your coffee?”

  Sheila shrugged.

  Mary swallowed one of the tablets, washing it down with coffee. For a few minutes she continued to sit slumped over the table, then she straightened up and began to talk and laugh loudly. Sheila, rigid with embarrassment, hoped no-one was watching who could interpret this behaviour correctly. She drank her coffee as quickly as possible and stood up.

  “Bye, Mary,” she said. “Time I was heading home.”

  “Don’t go, Sheila!” Mary said, suddenly changing from laughter to a clinging dependency. “I haven’t finished shopping yet. Don’t leave me! Stay for a while longer.”

  Sheila was firm.

  “No. I’m going now.”

  “When will we get together again? How about next weekend?”

  “No, I don’t think so, Mary. See you around.”

  That was the last Sheila saw of Mary for the some time. She looked back as she left the coffee bar. Mary was still sitting where she had left her, slumped over her
coffee cup again. Her eyes were half shut, her mouth hung open. With one finger she was pushing her cup by the handle round and round its saucer. Her bright, fair hair hung limply over her forehead and she was giggling quietly to herself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nearly two months passed and Sheila heard nothing more of Mary until an evening in late March.

  The message came through a friend who had been a frequenter of the weekend parties, Timmy White. He rang Sheila one evening while she was reading various critics on Milton in preparation for an important essay.

  Sheila’s first reaction was annoyance at being disturbed.

  “Timmy White?” she repeated down the phone.

  Then memory clicked into place. Of course. A tall, pleasant looking boy with light coloured hair and a pale, freckled face.

  “Okay. Yes, Timmy, this is Sheila Doherty. Long time, no see.”

  “Yeah.” Timmy paused. “It’s – well, Sheila, I thought you would be the person to ring. It’s Mary, you see. You're her best mate, right?”

  “Not really, Timmy.” Sheila was brisk. “I haven’t seen Mary for ages. Not since the beginning of February.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see. I didn’t know that. But maybe you could come anyway? I don’t know who else to call, except her parents, and I’d rather not involve them, right?”

  “I see.” Sheila thought for a minute. “What’s the problem, Timmy?”

  “I’m not sure. Mary passed out, here in my flat a couple of hours ago, and I don’t know what to do with her. She’ll have to be brought round and taken home. I thought a girl would know better what to do and – well – could you come?”

  “Okay,” Sheila said. “Give me the address and I’ll see if I can borrow my mother’s car. I’ll need it to take her home.”

  Timmy’s flat wasn’t far away. Ten minutes later, Sheila, in the car which she had quite recently learned to drive and which Kathy had allowed her to borrow with many warnings about taking care, pulled up at the kerb beside the tall house in the university area.