When the ballroom was finally opened to the public on a winter’s night in 1967, it looked truly splendid. Multicoloured fairy lights twinkled on the huge Christmas tree in the foyer, and the rotating spotlights on the main ceiling turned the ballroom on Magnolia Street into an underwater paradise of blue and green floating circles. Several gas heaters had been running all day, to take the chill off the new building. The smell of drying plaster was barely detectable. All the staff wore velvet bow ties, red shirts and black trousers with a satin stripe down the side. The in-house DJ had just returned to live in Belfast following a very successful two-year stint in a Butlin’s holiday camp in the north of England, and he prided himself on his popularity with the ladies. James thought this might have had something to do with the man leaving Butlin’s in the first place, but Johnny said that DJ Toni had his own sound-system and disco-lights, and the gig was his, and that was the end of it. James muttered something about never trusting a person who spelt their name in a fancy way, but he knew when he was beaten. Johnny made a short speech at the main entrance and Eileen wore a fun-tiara and cut the ceremonial ribbon. There was a great turnout for the launch. The local press had a field day:
MIRACLE BOY OPENS BALLROOM ON BLITZ SITE
. Johnny told the spellbound crowd that the massive glitter-ball suspended on a chain from the ceiling was the largest of its kind in Western Europe. It was a lie.
And Johnny knew that he had found his niche at last.
2. The Sisters
In a tiny house on Cairo Street, Kate and Shirley Winters, still in their pyjamas, were gearing up for their favourite day of the week. Kate was pouring tea from a shiny brown teapot. Her long black hair hung round her face like curtains and her big blue eyes were still half-closed with sleep. Shirley was carefully making toast under the gas grill, using the last two slices of bread from the packet. Her jaunty 1920s’ black bob was sticking out in all directions, and her eyes, large and blue like Kate’s, were streaked with yesterday’s mascara and eyeliner. Both girls were tall and slender, although Kate’s glamorous satin pyjamas were in stark contrast to Shirley’s homely flannelette ones. The morning sun was streaming through the net curtains at the kitchen window. Their parents had already gone to work in the hospital.
‘This grill has had it,’ said Shirley, as the dancing blue flame above the bread flickered and died. She relit the grill with a match, watching it burn down for a moment before she blew it out. But her elder sister wasn’t listening.
‘I don’t know whether to buy the pink leather jacket in Top Shop or the white sheepskin boots in Dolcis,’ sighed Kate, as she opened a fresh pot of strawberry preserve. ‘What do you think, Shirley?’
‘I think you should stop wearing animal skins,’ said Shirley, gravely.
‘Oh, good grief. Don’t start on me so early in the day. Just because you once bought a couple of albums by the Smiths, you think you’re going to save the world?’
‘Every little helps, Kate. How can you afford leather jackets, anyway?’
‘Never you mind.’ (Kate had a massive overdraft and a bank clerk who fancied her.)
‘I’m going to buy the new single by A Flock Of Seagulls,’ announced Shirley, as she munched her toast. ‘I absolutely
love
it.’
‘And you think I waste money? Why don’t you get yourself some new clothes instead?’
‘I was thinking I might buy a new oven, before this piece of scrap explodes in the middle of the night and kills all of us in our beds. Mum would love a new one.’
Kate was quiet then for a few minutes. There was no possibility she might chip in for a new oven when there were pink leather jackets to be had in Top Shop.
‘Are we still going to stalk lover-boy in Quigley’s this morning?’ asked Kate suddenly.
‘No, I’ve changed my mind,’ said Shirley. ‘I’ll buy my record somewhere else. And I’m not
stalking
him. And he’s not my lover.’ Not yet, she thought.
‘Suit yourself. I’m away upstairs for a shower,’ reported Kate, as she set her plate and mug into the sink.
‘Righto, leave me some hot water,’ warned Shirley, and she reached for the mail-order catalogue, to check the prices of various household appliances. Kate always took at least an hour getting ready in the morning.
They would spend until lunchtime trawling the shops for bargains, and in the afternoon they might have fish and chips in the city centre somewhere. Then they would return home – Kate to pamper herself in the bathroom, and Shirley might listen to a new record as she tried on her thrift-store discoveries. (In some stores, she could buy several outfits for less than ten pounds.) Then they would get ready for the Saturday-night disco in Hogan’s ballroom. It was the in-place to go, so unfashionable that it had recently acquired cult status.
Shirley pottered around the house for a while, watched the news on TV, got dressed and then went to talk to Kate.
‘I think that the men around here actually enjoy a good riot,’ shouted Shirley above the noise of Kate’s top-of-the-line hairdryer. Shirley was cross because she’d had to endure yet another cold shower.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Kate, switching it off.
‘All that roaring and shouting. They’re throwing whole
trees
at the police! Pure naked rage. Don’t you think it’s very
primitive
?’
‘I never think about stupid riots. You think too much, Shirley. That’s always been your trouble.’
‘I was just watching the news. They burnt down a carpet shop.’
‘Ah, no, the lovely carpets! And by the way, you’re wearing outdoor shoes on my
white
carpet.’ She wagged an accusatory finger at her younger sister. ‘If there’s oil on your shoes, this floor’ll be ruined. And you can pay for a new one!’
Shirley sighed. She often wondered how Kate had managed to reach the grand old age of twenty-nine without ever having had one single, profound thought. Or how she could be germ-phobic and boy-crazy at the same time.
‘You could take a PhD in missing the point, Kate. Do you know that?’ But she slipped off her shoes anyway, and held them up by the heels.
‘Don’t sit on the bed,’ warned Kate, eyeing Shirley’s latest outfit: a faded pink and orange silk skirt and blouse from the local thrift store. And horror of horrors, a waist-length necklace of red glass flowers, that even a half-blind maiden aunt wouldn’t wear to the back door. Poor Shirley, only nineteen years old; she actually believed it was the ultimate in cool to wear
used
clothing.
‘Oh, shut up, it’s all been professionally cleaned,’ said Shirley, ‘and it’s miles better quality than your trendy chain-store rubbish.’
Shirley Winters threw herself down on her sister Kate’s pretty, cast-iron bed and studied Kate’s extensive handbag collection, which was mostly kept hanging on the bedposts.
‘Don’t let that filthy purse of yours touch my pillow, for God’s sake,’ Kate cried.
Shirley laughed and lovingly rubbed the antique purse across her own face, while Kate shivered with disgust. Kate couldn’t be too unkind to her little sister this morning, or she’d be left without an escort for her weekly visit to Hogan’s ballroom.
Kate’s room was a treasure trove of ladies’ accessories. In fact, there were so many animal-print scarves, plastic belts and spike-heeled shoes everywhere, it resembled a well-stocked boutique. The room even boasted its very own mini-chandelier, complete with glass droplets.
‘You’re weird,’ Kate sighed. Shirley’s point-blank refusal to wear new clothes was impossible for her to understand.
‘You buy a new handbag every time you go out with a new man. How weird is that?’ Shirley said.
‘Yeah, well. I’m sentimental.’
‘You’re a narcissist, Kate,’ scoffed Shirley. ‘That means you have no regard for other people’s feelings, in case you didn’t know.’
‘I’m still looking for the perfect man—bag combination,’ Kate said calmly, peering in the mirror of her dainty dressing table and rubbing on some blue eyeshadow. She didn’t suffer from a guilt complex of any kind, that was true. And Kate thought that was a good thing. She’d once dumped a perfectly civil insurance salesman from Derry because he had committed the ultimate fashion-crime of having brown shoelaces in his black brogues.
Shirley counted the handbags. There were forty-three of them, made of velvet, denim, leather and suede. Some were very pretty – beaded or tasselled. Some were modern, minimalist and smart. Shirley wondered again if her big sister might have some sort of shopping addiction. No woman in her right mind could possibly need so many bags. (Or so many boyfriends.) Shirley had one handbag, and one handbag only; it was a small Victorian purse made of pale green silk, with pretty silver handles and a fine chain for carrying. She never let it out of her sight. It was her most precious possession, a once-in-a-lifetime find in an antiques store in the village of Helen’s Bay. Kate was convinced the purse was full of deadly TB germs, and even the girls’ mother wouldn’t allow it in the kitchen, for fear it might contaminate the groceries.
Kate was now brushing her long, dark hair. ‘Kevin McGovern asked me out last week,’ she said, ‘and he was wearing filthy overalls at the time.’
‘He is a mechanic, Kate. He can hardly repair cars wearing a tuxedo.’
‘We bumped into each other outside the newsagent’s at the top of the avenue. I said, “Where are you taking me? To the garage to see your alloy-wheel collection?” We laughed it off, but really, the cheek of him.’
‘Kate, he’s nice.’
‘Can you see me married to an oil-spattered Kevin?’
‘Kevin and Kate? It has a kind of ring to it, don’t you think? Kevin and Kate McGovern, of McGovern’s Garage, Belfast. Solid and dependable, that sounds. Hasn’t he kept that business going single-handedly since his father retired?’
‘Oh, Shirley, you’re away with the fairies. You probably would marry some stupid fella just because your names both started with the same letter.’
‘Come to think of it, he’s always inventing things to do with cars. He told our dad he was working on an antitheft device, last time he saw him. Likely he’ll be rich someday. You should have given him a chance, Kate. He might scrub up rather well, out of the overalls.’
‘I doubt it. Anyway, name me one rich inventor. Pass me that can of hairspray, would you? The extra-strength one, there, in the metallic pink can, at the back of the shelf. With the purple lid.’
Shirley passed the container and stood back as the perfumed cloud enveloped her sister, waving away the strong-smelling fumes. They both held their breath until the fine, sticky mist finally settled on the white carpet.
‘Where did I put that clutch bag with the sequin roses?’ (She’d bought that particular bag after a two-week fling with a professional gardener who wrote love poems to her on the back of horse-chestnut leaves.)
‘It’s there, on the bed. On the pillow, under the denim shoulder bag.’
‘Oh, yeah. Pass it over, would you?’ Shirley passed it.
She stood behind her sister, peering into the mirror from over Kate’s shoulder. She stole a blob of Kate’s pink hair gel and used it to flatten down her blunt-cut fringe. The deadly purse swung from Shirley’s wrist on its delicate chain, and caught Kate in the eye.
‘For God’s sake, I told you to keep that damn purse away from me!’
‘Sorry.’ Shirley tried to sound as if she meant it.
‘Are you really wearing those old rags into town?’ Kate moaned. ‘You’ll make a right show of me.’
‘There’s a matching hat, too,’ laughed Shirley.
‘Please tell me that’s a joke. The hem is hanging off your skirt. People will think you’ve no money. Oh, Shirl-ee…’
‘Okay, first, this is a genuine 1920s’ garment, I’ll have you know. It’s supposed to look old because
it is old
. Secondly, I have no money
to spare
. A new oven won’t come for free.’
‘Yes, well. That’s very nice of you, Shirley. But you’ve got to think of yourself. You’ll not get a boyfriend, done up like that. You want to get a nice, leather dress, like my new one. Low-cut in front. Bit of body glitter on the old cleavage. Get the boys’ eyes popping out, that will.’
‘I don’t want their eyes popping out. Or anything else, either. You shouldn’t encourage them, Kate. They’re barely able to control themselves at the best of times. A low-cut, leather dress could push them over the edge altogether.’
‘You won’t get far in your poverty-chic. That’s all I’m saying. And those big buttons give me the creeps. Some old biddy could have died wearing that very blouse. Ugh!’
‘I don’t want
any
man,’ said Shirley, softly. ‘Just
one
man in particular. I want Declan Greenwood.’ She thought of his dark brown, deep-set eyes and his blond crew cut, and wanted to hold him so much it was like a physical pain. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s our destiny.’
‘Destiny, nothing, Shirley. You fancy him. Don’t try and dress it up as something from a higher level. You’ll just have to attract his attention. Men are very visual creatures. Everyone knows that. Show him a bit of shoulder if you’re too shy to show anything else. I’ve got a nice top you could borrow. Bananarama –’
‘No, it’s an elemental thing. It’s something spiritual. As old as time. When two people are right for each other, when the chemistry is right, Mother Nature will know it, and she will bring them together. It’s something in nature that pairs people off, you see – knowing they have complementary qualities that will help them to survive in the chaos of the world. That’s my theory.’
‘You’re cracked, Shirley Winters. What about Bonnie and Clyde? Mother Nature slipped up badly the day those two met, didn’t she?’
‘It’s not a perfect system. I’m not saying it’s perfect.’
‘I’m telling you, marriage is all based on physical attraction. Men marry women who are as attractive as they are, on a scale of one to ten. Beautiful people marry each other. Plain people marry each other. That’s a scientific fact. Eventually, people become so plain that nobody at all will marry them. And the plain genes die out. See? I read about it in a magazine. It’s just one big beauty competition out there.’