The First Time I Said Goodbye (12 page)

“You’ve a quare glow about you, our Stella,” her daddy had said, taking her hand and squeezing it, but her mother had raised her eyebrow, looking between Stella and Dolores for a sign of what had her smiling so brightly.

Stella felt a giggle rise up inside of her and, even though her mother’s expression was vaguely disapproving, she couldn’t help but let it out.

“Be careful,” her mother said before passing down the serving dish of peas. “Just be careful.”

* * *

She had been careful. She had picked out her Sunday-best dress and a new pair of stockings. She had set her hair the night before and used some of the scent her granny had bought her the previous Christmas. She had persuaded Dolores to loan her a pair of sterling silver earrings and had allowed her to help her with her make-up. She wasn’t really used to painting her face. She didn’t have much cause to – maybe a bit of loose powder now and again, but that was that. When her transformation was complete, pan stick and blusher at the ready, she looked in the mirror and smiled. She didn’t look half bad. The only fly in the ointment was the slightly threadbare coat she had to pull on over her dress. She was saving for a new one – a decent one she had seen in Austins’ window, but it was beyond her means just then. So slightly threadbare would have to do and if Mr American Pride didn’t like it then he could clear off with himself. Buttoning her coat tight, she lifted her bag and glanced again back at the mirror, or at least what she could see of it with Dolores in the way. Dolores, acting as chaperone and still after her very own Yank, was teasing a final curl on her head up with a hair slide. She looked pristine – well groomed and womanly. She had a figure straight out of a Hollywood movie. Stella brushed her hands down her coat, her small frame and flat chest only too obvious to her, and she took a deep breath. Sure Ray had asked her out – not the other way round. He had seen Dolores too, but he hadn’t asked her. Or any of the other girls. Sure he was the Quiet Man, they said – the Base’s answer to John Wayne. She looked away from Dolores and the mirror and urged her sister to get a move on. She never liked to be late – even though Dolores said there was no harm in keeping a man waiting. She had agreed to meet him at The Diamond and they would walk together to get a taxi to the Base – and she simply didn’t like the thought of him standing there in the cold waiting for her and wondering if she would show up or not. He might be tempted to go on and she wouldn’t like that.

“Dolores, you are beautiful. Can we go?”

Dolores laughed – a flirty laugh that Stella guessed she had been practising just for the night that lay head – and grabbed her own coat and put it on. “Come on then, what’s keeping you?” she joked, heading towards the door and calling a quick goodbye to her mother and father as she led Stella out into the cool air and towards her first date with Ray.

* * *

“Stay close to me,” he said, as they got out of their taxi and walked into the Base. She felt his hand reach for hers.

Normally Stella would have found this a little forward – but there was something about him that made her feel safe so she let him take it, the warmth of his hand on hers making her feel a little giddy.

She would have to keep her wits about her. She would have a soft drink – no Babycham. She felt
giddy enough in his presence already and didn’t trust herself.

She was happy to stay close to him, allowing him to lead her into the smoky room. All eyes were on them – most likely because this was the first time Ray had ever brought a girl back to the Base – and she felt her cheeks redden further. She would most definitely have to keep her wits about her.

They chatted amiably. She told him about her work in the shirt factory. She was sure her work as a folder wasn’t nearly as exciting as a job that required you to travel the world as part of the US Marine corp but he listened anyway – seemingly fascinated by her daily activities: the early call, the flat-out work, the camaraderie among the workers – how they would sing through the day and share their gossip over their lunch. She held some stuff back – she didn’t want him to think she was fishing for anything by telling him about the savings club or how she had bought her new dress on tick from the Chada brothers who had arrived in the street with their car full of beautiful clothes and had been set upon by every one of the neighbours’ girls eager to have something nice to wear for the next big dance.

She sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him that she had a hole patched up in the bottom of her shoe or that she slept with her threadbare coat over her in the winter to keep her warm. She didn’t think he would understand. Sure wasn’t he from America?

But when she talked to him, when they chatted and he told her about the town he lived in – which sounded like it came straight out of a Hollywood movie, she allowed herself to be transported away into a different world.

Ray had kissed her that night. Just on the cheek – but she had felt a pulse of warmth spread right through her body and, when she lay in bed later, unable to sleep as she watched the night sky through her bedroom window, she still felt the warmth of his lips on her face as if he was there kissing her still.

She knew then she was utterly, utterly smitten and by the way he had promised that he would be in touch with her again she knew he was smitten as well. She never doubted it. She never wondered would he be true to his word. When he said he would get a message to her through one of the other girls, or arrange a time to talk to her on the phone in Mrs McGinty’s house, then he would do it. When the other girls tried to warn her about the Yanks – how they spoiled you but sometimes, perhaps, used you to stop them feeling lonely so far from home – she would smile and get on with her work because she knew Ray was different.

And in the four weeks that had followed he hadn’t proved her wrong. He had swept her off her feet. Not with grand gestures or sweet talk – not that he couldn’t sweet-talk. She would often replay the conversations they shared, walking along the quay, as she went to sleep at night. He had swept her away simply by listening – by being interested in everything she had to say, everything she felt. She could talk to him – in a way she couldn’t talk to her mum or to Dolores or to any of the girls. And, if the truth be told, the twinkle in his blue eyes, and the soft lilt of his accent didn’t hurt either. Ray never pushed her – he never expected anything more than she wanted to give. It was an innocent sort of a love affair – she would blush when some of the other girls would tell her what they got up to but that didn’t mean hers wasn’t as passionate an affair as any other.

Four weeks in, crossing the bridge hand in hand to the Waterside, the moon wild and bright in the sky casting rippling shadows over the Foyle, he told her he was falling for her. His words were carried off in the soft steam of the cold night and she almost reached out to grab them. She didn’t want to reply – to tell him she wasn’t falling for him at all – to tell him she had already fallen and didn’t ever want to get back up. Or, more accurately, she didn’t know how.

So when her mum sniffed over dinner and told her once again to be careful she had wanted to tell her that it was already much, much too late.

Chapter 11

How many ways are there to say sorry? I could say it from now until the day I die if that would make any difference.

* * *

Derry, June 2010

“You can come and work here every day,” Sam said, handing me a cup of coffee and directing me to a chair in the corner of his small but perfectly formed staff room, leaving the store in the capable hands of one of his assistants. He was providing lunch, coffee and sandwiches from a nearby deli, and I had only then realised how hungry I was. The coffee smelled and tasted glorious and I sighed with pleasure as I took a long sip. They say the coffee just isn’t as good outside of the States but this was a pretty damn good cup of Joe. The sandwich Sam had provided looked equally appealing. I almost fell on it, just about remembering my manners and the fact I was wearing a really lovely dress I didn’t want to spill sandwich-filling down.

“Is it always this busy?” I asked. Mondays were traditionally a quiet day for Bake My Day. People seemed to start new weeks filled with good intentions to eat well, spend less money, be more restrained: this generally did not bode well for baked delicacies. We had our usual run of office orders, the lunch menus and birthday cakes, but no one splurged. Thursday and Friday, as the week hurtled towards its close would see us run off our feet.

“Not usually,” he said, with a smile. “And definitely not on a Monday morning. I mean, we always have our share of browsers but they don’t turn into hard sales all that often. I think it’s you, cous, with your gift of the gab. Sell ice to the Eskimos, you could!”

I glowed with pride. It was more than nice to feel useful – to feel I was contributing positively in some way. And I liked how he called me ‘cous’. It made me feel part of something bigger. I wanted to grab on to every notion of family I could find and hold it. Plus, I had loved every moment in the shop. I had loved mooching through the stock, chatting to customers, finding their weaknesses and aiming for them (in a nice way of course). I had smiled so many times in that one morning that I wondered if perhaps I was going through some sort of manic episode.

I had sent a message to Craig – even though I didn’t know what was happening with us – just to say sorry and that I was happy and that I didn’t know myself any more. Knowing Craig, he would, when he woke and saw the message, look at it with the same look of sad resignation he often did when looking at my messages. He tried to understand. He told me all the time that he really wanted to know what was going on in my head and so many times I had wanted to tell him he was wrong: he really, really didn’t want to know. But instead I would smile. Was this wrong, I wondered as I gift-wrapped a glistening antique bracelet – destined to be a 40th birthday present for a dear friend of the purchaser – was it wrong that it felt easier to talk to him from thousands of miles away?

“It’s easy to sell stock as beautiful as this,” I said to Sam. “I feel as if I have stepped into my mother’s old dressing-up box – she had some style.”

“She still has style,” he said with a smile. “I can see my mother giving her the evil eye with her smart suits and her coiffed hair.”

“She does care about her appearance. Never likes to have a hair out of place. She would love this place – absolutely love it.”

“We should invite her in,” Sam said. “You know, when you aren’t at each other’s throats.” He winked as he said it but he was right, of course. The fly in the ointment of an otherwise glorious morning had been the pangs of guilt about my mother and our last encounter.

Coffee and sandwich consumed, I could barely wait to get back on the shop floor.

“You have a strange idea of what a holiday is.” Sam laughed and I smiled back.

“I suppose I have the luxury of not having worked in a while, not while Dad was sick anyway. And this isn’t my everyday job. I don’t have to worry about the overheads or the tax bills or keeping the place ticking over. I just get to come in and play shop. This is okay for me, honest.”

“I don’t understand it, but if you keep making sales like you did this morning I’ll let you away with it.”

He put our sandwich wrappers in the bin, wiped down the small table and we headed back to the store where several lunchtime shoppers were examining his latest stock.

It was clear he had repeat business, and it was clear that he was quite a draw himself. One female customer almost fell over herself to say hello to him as soon as he reappeared and I couldn’t help but notice she was giving me a touch of the evil eye – as if I were a threat to her future happiness.

“Sam,” she cooed, all batting eyelashes and coy smile, “I’m in need of something very special to get me through the weekend.”

“And the weekend just over, Niamh. Tell me, was it a good one?” He winked and she giggled coquettishly.

I had to stifle my giggles. It was fun to see Sam in his element – at ease with his work and enjoying this casual flirtation even if he and I both knew it would never come to anything.

“A quiet weekend,” she responded. “A few drinks with friends – nothing out of the ordinary. But I’ve a big night planned for Friday. There’s a charity ball at the Belfray. You should come! Be part of our gang! It’s for a good cause.”

“Well, we’ll see,” Sam said. “I’ve visitors at the moment and he turned to nod towards me, which didn’t seem to please this Niamh.

She straightened her back and forced on a smile which didn’t stretch as far as her eyes.

“Visitors indeed. Aren’t you the sly fox?”

I extended my hand and reluctantly she took it, her handshake soft and jelly-like as if she held me in the greatest disdain.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Annabel. Pleased to meet you.”

“Annabel,” she drawled my name. “That accent’s not local.”

“Nope,” I smiled. “It’s American. Florida, in fact. I’m just over for a short break and I offered to help Sam here out for a bit. Isn’t this store just amazing?”

“Yes, amazing.” She directed her answer to Sam and not me. Her eyes were searching for some sort of explanation from him and I wondered just how frequent a customer she was. She was dressed in a standard business suit – black fitted jacket and trousers, high boots, a flash of colour from a T-shirt under the jacket. On her fingers she wore an array of clunky cocktail rings, individual and flashy. The kind of rings I had spent the morning admiring in Sam’s store.