Promised Land (17 page)

The book made Ella laugh as Leo wrote down such funny things about people: the names of their pet animals, the names of their wives, the length of their arms, the nervous cough they had, the way they whistled when they talked. Leo seemed to notice everything.

‘It comes from my theatrical training,’ admitted Leo, ‘when one is expected to know everything about the character one is playing.’

Her employer still acted and often asked her to listen to his lines as they folded jumpers and parcelled up orders.

‘There aren’t enough parts for men of my vintage,’ he complained regularly, ‘all they want
nowadays
is matinée idols and rock and roll stars and English schoolboy farce!’

From that first day working with him, Ella realized that she was learning more and more about the business. He showed her how to tot up the cash dockets and prepare the bank lodgements, often sending her over to the Bank of Ireland to deposit the money, things that would all have been done by the accounts department in Lennon’s. Leo dealt with many of the suppliers himself and she loved seeing the latest knitwear designs they produced and the latest weave or colours they had developed. She went home from work exhausted, having helped Leo carry the parcels for delivery to the post office and then locked up.

Neil and she worked well together and the female customers absolutely adored him, flirting madly with him. Even Kitty, she suspected, thought he was cute as she often called to the shop when he was around, leaning on the counter to talk to him.

One Thursday she had come back from lunch when Leo had disappeared off upstairs. She was busy selling some tweed to a middle-aged lady who was a client of a designer called Sybil and had been sent in to pick the colours she wanted. She was stick-thin and immaculately groomed and wanted only the very best and the best of attention. Two or three more customers came in after her, and Ella did her best to pull out some sweaters for them to
try
on. There was no sign of Neil; obviously something had delayed him and she rang the bell connected to upstairs hoping Leo himself hadn’t gone out. One customer was American and had a list of his large family and the sweater sizes that were needed. Excusing herself for a second Ella went into the back and raced up the internal stairs to Leo’s flat opening the door and calling him.

‘Leo! It’s only me, but I’m packed out below!’

The cluttered living room was empty and she stepped towards the kitchen before noticing the bedroom door was ajar. She froze to the spot, realizing that she could make out the shape of two naked figures in the bed. Leo O’Byrne lay with his eyes closed and behind him Neil, embracing the older man. Puce with embarrassment, she stumbled through the flat and back down the stairs seconds later in a state of total disbelief as to what she had witnessed, serving the waiting customers as if nothing untoward has happened. Neil had appeared an hour later and made no mention of having heard or seen her.

Kitty, Gretta and Terri all roared laughing, tears running down their faces, when she told them that night over tea.

‘Honest to God Ella, you must be the biggest eejit in Dublin if you didn’t know what those two were up to!’

Ella had to laugh herself, thinking how she’d almost fancied Neil.

Chapter Twenty

SHE MET MAC
at a party in a flat in Rathmines that autumn, leaves tumbling from the sycamore trees that lined the street outside the tall red-bricked Victorian house in Dublin’s famous flatland. Its former glory was now disguised as a warren of flats and bedsits that ran from the top of the house to the basement. The party was held on the second floor in a large sitting room. The fellahs that lived there worked in the bank and one of them was a friend of Kitty’s.

‘He looks after my savings account,’ quipped her cousin.

Ella doubted that Kitty had a penny in the bank as she spent money as fast as she earned it. Still, it was nice of the young man to invite the two of them.

It was a different crowd from usual and the bank girls watched them with distrustful eyes. There were plenty of men and she supposed that they were all bank clerks and tellers. A walnut
table
, protected with a few well-placed mats, was laden with bottles of Guinness, whiskey, gin, a bottle of cream sherry and some wine. Over on the far side of the room two girls were engrossed putting records on the record player. Elvis Presley sang ‘Jailhouse Rock’ as the room began to fill. Their host Frank came over and hugged Kitty warmly, his arm sliding around her waist, which was accentuated by a wide black belt fitted snugly over the figure-hugging baby pink sweater she was wearing.

‘You look great! Am I glad you could make it!’

Giggling, Kitty introduced the two of them and they shook hands politely. Frank was only a bit taller than her, but was nice-looking with a friendly face and a neat short back and sides.

‘What’s the party for?’ asked Ella.

‘It’s for our flatmate Brian, a sort of farewell.’

‘Is he leaving?’

‘Aye, he’s taking the boat on Monday. His job in the engineering works in Dundrum went and he fancies his chances in the big smoke, in London.’

Ella and Kitty glanced over at the handsome fellow with jet-black hair and a great look of the actor James Dean, who’d been killed in a car accident only the year before, a crowd of girls around him.

‘The girls will be heartbroken when he’s gone,’ laughed Frank. ‘He’s a desperate man for the women!’

Ella made polite chit-chat with some of the other
fellahs
and girls who Frank introduced them to. It grew warm in the room and she and Kitty moved over towards the table, feeling thirsty and needing a drink. Ella squirted red lemonade from the glass siphon into a glass for herself. Kitty did the same but had added a measure of Irish whiskey to the glass first.

‘Go easy!’ warned Ella, sipping her drink slowly and surveying the crowded room, hoping she might recognize a few people there. Kitty was flirting madly with Frank and she felt a right gooseberry. More and more people crammed into the party, the noise level rising; half of Rathmines must be there, she reckoned. She found herself moving towards the window where she nabbed a seat on the top of the radiator. Kitty and Frank disappeared off somewhere. Ella perused the rest of the partygoers, recognizing a girl from the hairdresser’s in Wicklow Street where Terri worked and two fellahs that Kitty had introduced her to a few weeks back in the Gresham. She wished that she had dressed up a bit more for the party and put on a bit more of the warpaint like her cousin had advised; a smear of Gala lipstick and a flick of cake mascara was hardly adequate. Her hair hung to her shoulders and she regretted not pinning it up like most of the other girls there had done. It would have felt a lot cooler. Men liked women who made an effort. She supposed that was why she was left sitting like a wallflower on her own.

Mentally she groaned to herself as a few couples
began
to clear the centre of the room of its chairs and table and footstool and began to dance, watching enviously as holding hands they got up and automatically fell into the dance rhythm together. Ella cursed Kitty for running off and abandoning her. Perhaps she should go and search for her; at least it was better than sitting there and looking so bloody stupid. The minute she stood up, her place was gone so she had no option but to find Kitty. A small kitchen was partitioned off from the main room and catching a glimpse of baby pink through the open door, she surmised that her cousin must be there.

‘There you are, Ella! I was wondering where you had got to. Be a pet and help pass around these sandwiches. The bread helps to soak up the booze!’

Her protests were ignored as Kitty thrust a tray of chunky doorstopper ham and tomato sandwiches into her arms.

‘Here, Mac! Meet my cousin. The two of you are to offer the sandwiches around!’

A tall man followed her out of the cramped kitchen. They went in opposite directions, passing the trays around. Out of the corner of her eye Ella was aware of his large frame clad in a sports jacket, and his wavy fair hair, as like herself he tried to force sustenance on the party guests. They met in the middle, abandoning the trays on the table.

‘I’m Mac by the way, one of Frank’s flatmates.’

Ella grinned. He had the bluest eyes that she had ever seen, with fair eyelashes and brows, and his skin looked lightly freckled from the sun.

‘I think perhaps that we should dance and let those blasted sandwiches look after themselves.’

She concurred totally and let him lead her onto the dance floor.

Ella had always considered herself a good height, in fact rather tall for a woman, yet the top of her head was only level with his chin, he was so tall. Already she knew that she was attracted to him. His hands were wide and big, yet he was no farmer’s son. They were too soft for that.

‘I’m from the North,’ he told her. ‘From Northern Ireland, a place called Bangor in County Down. The bank sent me down to Dublin to work about six months ago.’

Mac leaned forward as she spoke, listening as she told him about Mr O’Byrne and the shop where she worked, and Kilgarvan, the place that she came from. His accent was strange and it took her a while to get used to it, but over the following few hours they exchanged all kinds of information about themselves. They grew tired of dancing and Mac managed to find an armchair. After lowering himself into it he pulled her onto his lap. She had no qualms about staying there. Kitty walked by them a few times and bar a widening of her gaze did nothing to jeopardize this new flirtation. She noticed that Ella could barely take her eyes off the man, he was that gorgeous, and the two of
them
looked wrapped up in talking to each other.

The crowds began to drift away, the front door of the flat opening and banging closed as more and more people left. Ella longed for the party never to end, so that she could stay sitting in the chair with Mac’s arms around her and his warm breath on her neck.

‘Ella! Come on! We’ve got to go home! It’s almost four o’clock in the morning and I’m knackered.’

Kitty looked the worse for wear. Her hair had come undone and judging by the way her cousin was slurring her words she’d had a whiskey or two too much. It was high time they got going before Kitty started saying she felt sick.

‘I’ll walk you home, girls,’ offered Frank, who was half supporting Kitty.

‘Sure I’ll come too,’ offered Mac, much to her delight. ‘Brian, we’re walking these beautiful young ladies home,’ he called to their emigrant flatmate who lay sprawled asleep on the couch.

The streets were quiet and empty as they walked from Ranelagh, up along the canal towards Leeson Street. The night was warm and Ella flushed as Mac held her hand in his. A few stray cats prowled along the canal banks in search of vermin, and the girls were glad of their male companions. Mac said very little, and Ella hoped that he wasn’t bored of her company already.

‘Here we are, lads!’ declared Kitty giddily as she and Frank fell into a deep huddle of kissing at the
doorstep
. Embarrassed, Ella looked at Mac, biting her lip, unsure of what to say or do next, and searching for the keys of the flat in her handbag.

‘I’d better be going in Mac, thanks for walking me home and thanks again for the party.’ She cursed herself for jabbering like a monkey.

‘Ssh,’ he gestured, pulling her close to him and without further ado kissing her. Disbelieving, she returned his kiss, noting that she had already broken the cardinal ‘first date rule’. He tasted of Guinness and Ella wished that the kiss would go on for ever. Mac stared at her and she could tell he realized what an effect he was having on her.

‘Frank, come on and let these young ladies get to their beds!’ called Mac.

Reluctantly, Frank and Kitty broke apart.

‘Ella, I’ll be in touch, honest,’ promised Mac.

Disappointed that he had made no date with her, Ella managed to open the hall door and get Kitty inside. Yawning and tiptoeing upstairs, she wondered if Mac was just saying it, giving her the brush-off, or if they would really see each other again.

Ten days passed without a word from Mac. Frank Flynn had been round to the flat twice to escort Kitty to the pictures, and had made no mention of his flatmate. Ella hadn’t the courage to enquire and tried to push all thoughts of the Northern Ireland man out of her mind.

The shop was busy as Leo O’Byrne was involved
in
a play at the Gate Theatre and would disappear for hours on end to rehearsals. A colleague had made some comment about him playing ‘a portly gentleman’ and Leon had taken total umbrage.

‘I certainly would not consider myself overweight or out of shape! What do you think, Ella?’ he asked her almost daily, studying himself in the large oval mirror in the centre of the shop. She skirted around the issue as best she could, knowing how sensitive he was and not wanting to hurt his feelings.

‘I think that you are very handsome and fit for a man of your age, Leo, honest!’

Almost as soon as she said the words she realized that she had said the wrong thing. Leo had put himself on a diet and was living on meagre rations of boiled eggs, tomatoes and crackers which he had read about in some Hollywood magazine, and which a friend insisted would make him drop a stone in weight in no time. Ella’s stomach turned at the smell of the hard-boiled eggs, which he unwrapped in the back of the shop. She was sure the smell put off many would-be customers from entering the store. Leo himself was cranky and cross with such deprivation. Neil was keeping out of his way and barely visited the shop, having enough of Leo to deal with at home.

A delivery of tweed from the weavers in Donegal had arrived and Leo left it to her to sort out, and stock the shelves. The colours and textures were
wonderful
, the deep purple reminding her of the colour of the heather that grew on the hills around Kilgarvan, and the greens capturing the way the sunlight lit up a field of grass, or the rich green of hedges and ditches. The weavers had mixed the colours to capture the very essence of the land. She wondered if the wearers would ever truly appreciate where the colours had originated. On such a wet miserable Tuesday, barely a sinner came through the shop door and she concentrated on checking the stock and stacking the bales of tweed carefully.