August of 1932 began with an unwelcome continuation of the warm and very wet conditions of July. Then came a sudden change. In the middle of the month, between one day and the next, the weather settled. To the great delight of the four young people from Freeburns High Class Drapery, day after day now turned out fine and warm. It was such an encouragement to come to work on a Club day and know that their pleasure was unlikely to be spoilt either by the continuous rain which made it pointless even to go to the court or by the kind of sudden downpour that drove them to shelter in the pavilion in the middle of a game knowing the grass would become dangerous and unplayable after it passed.
As she cycled slowly home one Friday evening after a particularly happy couple of hours on the court, the sky already paling to gold in the west, Ellie admitted to herself that she would miss the club badly over the winter months. Although it barely affected her or Daisy, who both left early to cycle home, she’d heard Harry and Stanley complain their final set had to be played in the gathering dusk. Earlier in the week, Harry made them laugh when he told them how his partner the previous evening proposed dipping the tennis balls in the whitener used for marking the court, so they could see them well enough to finish their set.
‘That wou’d do the racquets a lot of good, wou’den it?’ Daisy had commented sharply, ever the most practical of the four.
It was she who had found proper tennis shoes for herself and Ellie at half price in a shoe shop in Thomas Street and insisted they bought them. Then she started them saving up for next year’s subscription and racquets of their own. Being the quicker of the two at figures, she’d counted up the weeks till the club reopened at the end of April, added the cost of the racquets and provided two clean jam pots with lids to keep in the cupboard in the staff-room along with the tea and sugar. Each payday, she had ensured that the relevant coins were added to each of them. She’d left a double payment in her jar before she took her holiday and warned Ellie that she’d have to do the same before she went off at the beginning of October.
It wasn’t a huge sum, but it did mean that what she put in her Post Office book each week was smaller than before. She’d felt uneasy and wondered if she should tell George, but she knew perfectly well what Daisy would say if she mentioned it. She’d told George about joining the Tennis Club, but he’d made no comment, just said that there wasn’t anything to do in the camp in the evenings except get cleaned up or play cards. Then, to her surprise, just as she’d finally made up her mind to tell him that she wasn’t able to save as much as usual, he mentioned the subject of saving up himself.
He said he was a bit disappointed with the way things were working out from a money point of view. The pay was great, just as he’d told her, but they had to pay for their food, which wasn’t cheap, and their share of the cook’s wages as well. Also, they had to pay for their own board and lodging whenever they had a weekend off. Besides that, they’d had to fork out for special work clothes and safety equipment as well as laundry every fortnight. Added to all of that, his uncle hadn’t mentioned they were laid off in the winter months, receiving only a small retainer and cheap board if they needed it in a hostel in Peterborough until the work started again when the ice melted. Some of the lads went down to the States to look for winter work but apparently it was hard to get.
She might not be as quick at mental arithmetic as Daisy was, but what he was saying could only mean one thing. It was going to take much longer than he’d thought to save up enough money to get them started. Unless something came to help, a different job or a legacy, or something totally unexpected. It might take years.
‘Hello, Ellie, how are you? You’re surely not working as late as this?’
Ellie leant her bicycle against the entrance to the shoeing shed as a familiar voice hailed her from the bench inside the forge. She said hello to her father and smiled down at Charlie Running as he moved promptly along the bench to leave room for her.
‘No, Charlie. Pleasure tonight,’ she replied, dropping gratefully down beside him. ‘Daisy and I’ve joined the RUC Tennis Club and we go a couple of nights a week.’
‘My goodness, it’s great to be young,’ declared Charlie, looking across at Robert, a distinct twinkle in his eye.
‘It’ll be a day or two before ye draw yer pension yet, Charlie,’ Robert replied tartly.
Ellie laughed. That was one up to her father. She leant back comfortably against the well-polished piece of wall behind the bench and looked from one to the other. She’d never quite been able to work out the friendship between Charlie and her father. Charlie was ten years younger, a senior clerk with Armagh Council, a man passionate about books and learning. Yet he sought out her father regularly and never took offence at the uncharacteristically sharp comments his presence always produced.
‘What about your holiday, Ellie? Are ye going up to see Aunt Annie and the family? I thought you’d have been away before this. Would your man not spare you till the sale was well over?’
‘No, to be fair he would have let me go before Daisy went,’ Ellie began, knowing Charlie rarely had a good word to say about Freeburn or any of the other employers in Armagh. ‘But Ruth won’t get any holiday till October,’ she went on. ‘She started a new job in May so she’s not due any time off till then. She’ll get a few days the week I’m there and I’ll amuse myself, or help Auntie, for the rest of it.’
‘I’m not sure Belfast is the best place to be going just at the moment,’ said Charlie slowly. ‘I think there’s going to be trouble there before very long. What do you think, Robert?’
Robert glanced across at him and hammered vigorously at a piece of metal before plunging it into the water tank.
‘You’re better up with these things than I am, Charlie. Is it the Socialists or the Communists stirrin’ up trouble this time?’
‘Man dear, d’ye not see the difference between troublemakers and the organisers of downtrodden labour?’ Charlie asked vigorously. ‘Have ye no idea of the poverty in that city? One and a quarter million in this little piece of Ireland and one hundred thousand of them unemployed and most of those in Belfast. And how many of those do you think get even a pittance by way of benefit? Less than half. Thirty-seven percent of working class families are living in absolute poverty. Nearly half those who die between 15 and 25 are dying of TB …’
Robert drew the dripping metal out of the tank, plunged it into the fire, leant on the bellows and pumped them gently till the fire glowed red and gold. Charlie paused, but did not stop. As soon as the roar of the fire quietened he returned to his bitter charge.
‘There’s people starving, Robert, as surely as they starved in the Famine. Catholics and Protestants alike. Their only hope of survival is a change in the rate of Outdoor Relief.’
‘Sure haven’t they the Workhouse if they’re bate?’ Robert asked sheepishly, pausing with his hand on the metal bar, its further end now glowing like gold in the heart of the fire.
‘Aye, there’s the Workhouse, if you’d wish that on any decent soul, but have you not heard of the means test? Sure you have to be destitute altogether for them to let you in and what man wouldn’t try to keep his family out? How can you feed a wife and children on a few shillings a week?’
Robert drew the bar from the fire and hammered the glowing tip so vigorously that bright sparks traced minute arcs of light into the now dark corners of the shadowy forge before they disappeared entirely.
Ellie glanced quickly from one face to the other. Her father’s was streaked with soot and sweat and lined with fatigue, Charlie’s clean and rounded, but so pale it might have been the face of someone shut up where they never even glimpsed the summer sun. In his eyes was a look of such pain as she’d never seen before.
She’d read in the local paper about disturbances in Belfast and there’d been some talk at the Club among the young men being posted there, but it hadn’t been clear to her either from what she read or heard exactly what the causes of the disturbances were. Everyone knew about the unemployment, how bad things were in the shipyards and in the mills, but her only contact with the city was the tall brick house on the Lisburn Road where her aunt and uncle lived and the area round Royal Avenue where she and her cousin, Ruth, went to gaze at the latest fashion in the shop windows.
The hammering had stopped, the metal thrust back in the fire. Before either man could speak again, they heard a rustle and a shadow fell across the door.
‘There’s not a drop of water in the house an’ I’m parched.’
Ellen Scott stood in the doorway, an empty pail in her hand. She looked at none of them, neither her husband standing by the hearth, nor her daughter seated on the bench, nor one of their closest neighbours sitting beside her. In a thin, wavering voice she told them she wasn’t fit to carry buckets from the well.
Charlie and Ellie rose at the same moment, both speaking at the same time.
‘No, Ellie, I’ll go,’ Charlie said firmly, laying a hand on her arm. ‘You go back to the house with your mother and I’ll bring the water to you.’
He strode off up the path and disappeared round the gable into the orchard.
‘Isn’t great to have someone to help you,’ Ellen said, as she stumbled back towards the house. ‘Kate Running doesn’t know she’s alive, has a man to fetch and carry for her,’ she began.
Ellie had heard it all before. There was no point whatever making any reply, so she counted to ten and said nothing.
The third week in August brought the arrival of the new assistant Charlie Freeburn had ‘had his eye on’. She turned out to be the fourteen-year-old sister of young John Sleator of Abbey Street and the youngest aunt of the most recent addition to the line of John Sleators, the robust baby born in May and mercifully known as ‘wee Johnny’.
A pretty, likeable, dark-haired girl, Susie had been sent to the local Grammar School but apart from a talent for playing games she’d shown none of the ability that had produced a series of successful business men from the male side of the family.
Not of sufficient social standing to be sent to finishing school to be groomed for a good marriage, but too lively and energetic to sit around at home fulfilling the dubious role of her mother’s little helper, or even acting part-time nursemaid to the newest Sleator, Susie had jumped at the chance of working in Uncle Charlie’s shop.
Technically, of course, Charlie Freeburn, was not her uncle. He was her older brother’s father-in-law, a point which he made to her very tactfully before she took up her appointment. At the same interview, Charlie told her that though she must at all times be polite to Miss Walker, it was to Miss Scott she was directly responsible. Miss Walker no longer supervised the female staff. Purchasing stock in Belfast and Manchester and ensuring the inventories and accounts were up to date was now her sole responsibility. Whatever problems Miss Sleator might have were to be referred to Miss Scott, who was now Senior Assistant.
Ellie had given no thought at all to the change in status which Charlie Freeburn had hinted at some months earlier when she’d approached him about Daisy’s problems but a significant change in his behaviour made her suddenly sharply aware of it.
While he had always been courteous towards her and had often asked to ‘have a word’ about stock, or customers, he would now ask her to come to his office when it was convenient. His questions were not very different from the ones he’d put to her before, but now there were many more of them and much more detailed. Sometimes indeed she had to admit she hadn’t got an answer, but he appeared to be quite satisfied when she told him she would think about it and come back to see him when she’d found out what he wanted to know.
He never forgot anything he’d asked her, even though she never saw him make a note of what he’d said, but nor did Ellie forget what he had asked. She would set her mind to the problem, consider it patiently until she was satisfied she had an answer, then she’d knock on his door, ask him if it was convenient to have a word and give him her conclusions.
There was another significant change too, though it was some time before she realised it. The stock being bought in by Miss Walker was of a kind and quality which she herself had recommended to her boss.
As for Susie, Ellie found the girl a delight. It was true you had to tell her everything at least five times, but when she grasped something new she was so pleased with herself, one couldn’t help smiling and sharing in her pleasure. Daisy was amazed at how slow Susie could be, but instead of being irritated by her slowness, Daisy showed a quite surprising patience with her. She’d go to great lengths to find ways to help her remember how many inches there were in a yard and a quarter or how to use the ready-reckoner without having to ask for help in front of a customer.
It seemed to Ellie that Daisy was happier than she’d ever seen her, helped by a new measure of confidence which grew out of encouraging Susie. Then it came to her there was something else as well. There was no longer Miss Walker looming over her all day, giving expression to a disapproval poor Daisy could never hope to modify because the cause of it was the very nature of the person she was. Of her own growing confidence, however, she was quite unaware.
The very last opening of the dark-green gate into the RUC court was planned for Wednesday 7th September at 2.00 p.m. If rain were to interrupt or even prevent play the Club would still be meeting thanks to a marquee provided by the Committee from funds raised at the Annual Dance in the City Hall. All members were urged to attend for as much of the event as possible.
If the weather was fine there would be a knock-out tournament, names to be drawn for mixed doubles at two o’clock and at six o’clock. Tea would be served from five thirty onwards and play would go on as long as the light lasted, or until the winning couple had been found. Dancing would follow in the marquee.
Daisy could talk about nothing else and Ellie felt sorry for Susie. It was bad enough that she was already a good player but too young to join the club, but worse still, for a girl who so loved dancing, was the thought of missing this opportunity. However small and informal compared with the Annual Tennis Club Dance in the City Hall, a dance was a dance and not being there was almost more than she could bear.
There was little comfort in Daisy telling her she could join when she was seventeen and that she and Ellie would introduce her to everyone. But, to her great credit, Susie cheered up as the day approached and insisted on helping the two girls make the loaf of sandwiches they’d been asked to provide as their contribution towards the tea.
‘Make sure one of you wins the prize,’ Susie said, as they wrapped the sandwiches in a damp cloth and packed them carefully into a cardboard box.
‘Depends who we draw, Susie,’ explained Daisy. ‘Can’t do it without a good partner. If one of us draws Harry or Stanley we’d have a chance, they’re among the best of the men, but it’s a lucky dip. Two lucky dips actually. One for those who have the half day and one for those that haven’t. There’ll be a play off then between the winners.’
‘Well, good luck to you both. I hope you have a great time. I’ll want to hear all about it tomorrow,’ she said, beaming at them both, as they changed their sensible shop footwear for something prettier they could dance in later and gathered up their bags and tennis shoes.
The three girls walked together down the dim, high-walled entry which led from the back of the shop and emerged into Scotch Street. Bright sunlight spilt down from a cloudless sky.
‘Well, that’s a good start,’ said Susie enthusiastically, as she turned away. ‘See you win.’
A few minutes later they were cycling into the Palace Grounds, the path to the left entirely visible, especially scythed for the occasion by the elderly groundsman who mowed the court and marked out the white lines. As well as the bicycles parked against convenient trees, they spotted a couple of motorbikes pushed into the thicker undergrowth. On the narrow road that ran in front of the two estate houses and lead up to the Palace itself, three motors and a police tender were lined up neatly one behind the other.
The familiar dark-green door was propped open and all around the still empty court people moved backwards and forwards, some of the men in whites, girls in summer dresses, some delivering baskets and boxes of food to the back of the marquee, others joining the queue at the Secretary’s table to write their names on slips of paper ready for the partner’s draw.
‘Here, I’ll take the grub to the tea-ladies, you away and write our names down,’ said Daisy, her face shining. ‘There’s Harry waving at you. You’d better away and say hello to him’.
Ellie filled in the two slips of paper, folded them as instructed, dropped them into a cardboard box covered with pink wallpaper and went over to tell Harry how smart he looked. Both he and Stanley had acquired new white flannels and she couldn’t help noticing how dazzling their well-worn tennis shoes were. Even the laces had been carefully coated with whitener.
‘Ladies and gentlemen …’
The Secretary, a non-playing member with a neat tooth-brush moustache, small round spectacles and a balding head, raised his megaphone and requested their attention.
In the complete silence that followed, he repeated the details of the afternoon’s arrangements most of which they were perfectly familiar with already. He then went on to explain how the draw for partners had been designed to incorporate the draw for opponents as well. The first pair drawn, one from each of the two boxes, pink and blue, would play the second pair drawn. Pair three would play pair four. And so on. The winner of each two pairs would play the next winning pair and so on in similar fashion. One set only and sudden death if it went to five games each. He would read out the names of players drawn together and then post a printed list on the side of the pavilion.
Ellie sat down in the deckchair Harry had been keeping for her and lay back briefly with her eyes shut, her face turned towards the sun.
‘Wake me up if you need me,’ she said laughing, just before the first names were announced.
‘Daisy Hutchinson and …’
Ellie’s eyes opened immediately. She sat up and they listened intently.
‘Frank Armstrong.’
‘Ohhhh. He’s good,’ said Harry quickly. ‘That’s the Sergeant Armstrong I told you about.’
‘The one who wanted to paint the tennis balls?’
‘The very one. But he was only fooling. He plays a lot.’
They stopped talking and waited, their eyes upon the woman who was picking out the slips of paper and handing them unopened to the Secretary.
‘Adele Simpson and … James Nethercott.’
‘He’s police as well. Not as good as Armstrong. Don’t know her,’ Harry whispered quickly, as a tall, blonde woman stood up just a few yards away.
‘Sadie Ballantine and … Stanley Orr. Dorothy Trimble and … George Montgomery.’
Some minutes later Harry was drawn with one of the policemen’s wives. Sitting some distance away, her small daughter parked in her pram beside her, she raised her hand in acknowledgement.
‘Is she any good?’ Ellie asked, sensing the young man’s disappointment.
‘Yes, better than you are, but guess who I’d like to have drawn,’ he said, smiling down at her.
He walked away, spoke to Mrs Edwards, smiled and knelt down beside the pram to speak to her daughter. The little girl regarded him solemnly, then stuck out her hand and offered him her rather grubby stuffed rabbit.
Ellie watched them out of a corner of her eye as the remaining names were read out amid a chorus of comments, of delight, chagrin or amusement. Harry had such a gift for being easy with people. Old or young, titled lady or servant, it was all the same to him. Some girl would be fortunate in five or ten years time if Harry were in a position to marry. But that was the problem, wasn’t it. Even when he was more experienced, what Harry could earn at Freeburns, might pay his keep, buy him a new suit for the shop every two years, pay his subscription to the club or replace his worn racquet, but it wouldn’t look at supporting a wife and children.
Just like George had been. She sighed inwardly. Just like he still was, for the moment at least. She put the thought hastily out of mind as she saw the first two couples walk onto the court and toss for sides and service.
‘Miss Ellie Scott?’
The Secretary stood in front of her looking apologetic.
‘I’m afraid we were one man short for the afternoon draw. I’m so sorry, but I assure you, you’ll have the first man out of the blue box at six o’clock.’
Ellie laughed and was pleased to see him looking relieved.
‘I’m quite glad really,’ she said to reassure him. ‘Three of my friends will be playing each other and I’ll be able to watch them all.’
‘Good. Good,’ he said, ‘Enjoy your afternoon. You’ll hear from me at six o’clock.’
The afternoon passed quickly, the couples urged to change over promptly at the end of each set. Daisy and her partner, a tall serious-looking young man took their opponents to five all and had Ellie sitting on the edge of her seat. One game up, she realised it was Daisy’s service, her one weak spot. But Daisy was on form, not even a foot fault and once her service went over the net, both she and her partner, now well adjusted to each other, slogged it out through one of the longest single games of the afternoon. In the end, they just made it, shook hands with their opponents and came off the court dripping with sweat, Frank’s arm lightly around Daisy’s shoulders as Ellie walked over to congratulate them.
By late afternoon, to the Secretary’s great satisfaction, all the necessary matches had been played. There would be fewer couples arriving for the evening and as it was still fine and dry, he could be almost sure the light would last and he’d not have to declare a draw between the finalists, or even, as had happened in previous years, to ask the semi-finalists to share the honours as darkness fell.
Tea was very welcome and Ellie realised how hungry she was.
‘Excitement, that’s what does it,’ Harry announced as he loaded up her plate from a passing tray of sandwiches.
‘You played well, Harry. Sorry you didn’t manage it. Richard Sleator is very good isn’t he?’
‘I wish I’d a serve like his,’ Harry replied ruefully between mouthfuls. ‘I think Mrs Edwards was frightened of him. Though she did her best,’ he added quickly. ‘But we gave them a run for their money.’
‘You did indeed,’ she agreed vigorously. ‘Have you seen Daisy anywhere?’ she went on, looking around the moving figures in the marquee.
Harry smiled shyly.
‘I think you’ll find she’s getting to know her partner better before they play in the finals.’
The megaphone was not working properly. Strange whining noises issued from it as the Secretary picked it up and looked at his watch. The newcomers had got as far as the cake, but were still munching when it was finally persuaded to work.
‘Ellie Scott and … Sam Hamilton.’
Oh goodness, Ellie thought, her heart leaping to her mouth. Someone I’ve never even met. He must be a policemen who’s been on duty. She took a deep breath, stood up and walked slowly towards the Secretary’s small table as he read out the next pair of names, their opponents in the first game of the evening.
‘Ellie Scott?’
She looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man in white flannels gazing down at her, a strange look on his face she couldn’t quite make out.
‘Are you Sam Hamilton?’
‘Yes, I am.’
He seemed to be about to say something else when the Secretary finished his much-shorter list of names and hurried them on to the court to shake hands with their opponents and toss for sides and service.
‘Which side do you like?’ he asked, turning to her, when he won the toss.
‘The other side, please.’
He looked anxious and uncomfortable as they walked round the net together and headed for the baseline.
‘Are they good?’ he asked quietly.
‘I’ve never seen either of them before,’ she whispered back.
‘Nor have I. What should we do?’
Suddenly Ellie thought of the day she’d gone to Sleators to deliver the matinee coat for wee Johnnie and she’d had to search for brown paper in the receptionist’s office. Now, perfectly clean, his face shining, not a trace of oil in sight, he looked just as awkward as he had in his dungarees.
She laughed up at him as they turned to face their opponents.
‘We can only do our best. Sure we delivered the parcel between us.’
‘Aye, you’re right there,’ he said more cheerfully, as he caught the new balls deftly from the ball boy and asked her if she would like to serve.
They won the set with ease.