A Parachute in the Lime Tree (13 page)

Elsa played on for a little while and then she stopped. She sat silently, with her back to him. Charlie’s eyes leapt around the room looking for a conversation piece. When finally she turned around to face him, his cheeks were hot with the effort of appearing in control. They both started to speak at the same time.

‘Isn’t that a girl’s name?’ She looked at him from under her lashes, her head to one side.

For a moment, he didn’t know what she was talking about

‘Caroline. That’s how you signed your letter: Charles Caroline Byrne.’ She rolled the syllables so that they sounded incapable of being applied to anything male.

‘No,’ he said, flustered. ‘It’s Carolan. After Turlough O’Carolan, the blind harper. It’s a man’s name.’

‘Harper?’

‘Fellow who plays the harp, musician.’

She looked amused. His face was burning.

‘Did your mother want a musician for a son?’ she asked.

The idea had never occurred to him before.

‘Something different,’ he said. ‘I suppose they wanted something different.’

‘And are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

She sat in the chair opposite him and placed her hands in her lap. ‘I don’t want to be an accompanist,’ she said.

He felt such a great surge of relief that he must have smiled. ‘Oh that’s all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it would be up your alley anyway. It’s Gilbert and Sullivan, mainly.’

She wrinkled her forehead, then dismissed the whole thing with a wave of her hand.

‘Would you come out with me, Elsa Frankel?’ he asked quickly, in the half hope that it would slip out without her noticing. ‘We could go to a concert, if you’d like?’ He had the spring concert in mind. In the Damer Hall.

‘Yes,’ she said, and he felt like he was stepping off an old, half-dead planet onto one that was fizzing with life.

It was Friday night, and Mrs Curran stopped in her tracks as Charlie came down the stairs. ‘Begod, you’re the cat’s whiskers,’ she said. ‘Is there a dance on?’ Her behind swayed off through the living room door in its business-like way. He’d had Clark Gable in mind when it came to the hair and he hoped he hadn’t overdone the Brylcreem. He glanced at himself in the mirror and decided he’d do, then he took his bicycle clips out of the drawer in the hall stand and walked out the door.

When he arrived at Elsa’s house, he thought he could hear the sound of girls laughing. Twittering would be a better word, he thought, like little birds. Mrs Abrahamson showed him into the front room and gave a little nod of approval as her eyes travelled from the polished toes of his shoes to the Clark Gable hair. She closed the door behind her with a little click. Moments later, there were shuffles and whispers ouside, and more of the twittering. He eased himself towards the door. When the moment was right, he dropped down suddenly so that his eye looked straight through the keyhole. The eye on the other side blinked. There was a sharp intake of breath and then the sound of muffled shrieks, feet pounding up the stairs.

Seconds later, Elsa was in the doorway like a kind of a vision. Her hair gleamed and the ribbon was yellow tonight.

He felt it would be rude just to leave without a word to the Abrahamsons but there was no sign of either of them. Then, just as they were moving out into the hallway, Bethel came out of the back room. ‘Take good care of her now,’ he said. He patted Elsa on the back and his hand looked like the paw of a bear against the narrow span of her shoulders.

Charlie decided he didn’t know her well enough yet to invite her onto his crossbar, so he left his bicycle propped up against the railings. He didn’t know whether he should offer her his arm, so he didn’t. She was only as high as his shoulder but every sinew of her seemed more fully alive than most other people.

‘So, harp man, we’re going to hear some music?’

‘Oh, it’s just a variety concert. It won’t be top notch, just a bit of everything.’

He’d hoped that by understating his expectations the concert might be a pleasant surprise but the first couple of items were dreadful. First, a lady whose feet spilled out over the top of her shoes took to the stage to warble mournfully about the spring. Then, it was a trio of pale girls who sang ‘Three little maids from school are we’ and fluttered their paper fans and batted their eyelashes so ferociously it was exhausting just to watch. One girl let go in mid-flutter and her fan went flying off over the heads of the audience and landed with a clatter at the back of the hall. Maybe Nelson Eddy would have been a better bet.

Charlie had tried to position himself so he could to see her face without gawking straight at her. As the performances went from bad to worse, he contented himself with looking at her hands. By the time they’d heard a hooting contralto, a recorder ensemble and a histrionic recitation of ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’, Charlie had plucked up the courage to lay his hand gently on top of Elsa’s. When she didn’t move it, he mustered up the courage to look at her only to find her doubled up and shaking. He was alarmed for a moment, tried to remember if they’d covered fits and convulsions yet, until he realised that she was laughing fit to burst.

He longed for the interval. When at last it came, they stood by the wall in the foyer and drank bright-coloured minerals, and Charlie tried to find something appropriate to say.

‘I’m sorry it’s not better,’ he said at last. ‘We don’t have to stay, you know.’

Elsa looked horrified. ‘But of course we must stay. I would hate to leave. That spring lady, she might even have another song for us.’

He must have looked confused because she dug him in the ribs and threw back her head and laughed and laughed. He was glad she was enjoying herself, even if he was not sure it was right to laugh at people who were only trying their best.

Sure enough, the spring lady led the second half of the programme. She sang in Italian this time; something tragic for which she wore a feather headdress. Elsa ruffled his sleeve with delight. Next, a group of Irish dancers filed onto the stage. They stood there stiffly; black-stockinged knees raised and cross-laced feet pointed. There was a wheeze from the accordion at the side of the stage. The girls lifted their arms to form a chain and they were off. The fiddle sawed out the melody and the girls wavered across the stage. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three, one-two-three. Then curled into two circles. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Then in pairs. One-two-three, one-two-three. Elsa sat forward in her seat. She moved her head in time to the music and soon she was tapping out the rhythm on the edge of her chair. It wasn’t the kind of thing you do for Irish dancing, but no matter. He noticed a few people looking at her with curiosity and he felt proud that he was the one she was with.

When it was all over, they walked back up towards Portobello.

‘What was that last one they were doing, those four girls?’ she asked.

‘Oh, that would be an eight-hand reel,’ he said.

For some reason she found that hilarious. When she laughed, her laugh seemed almost too big for her, as though she would snap in two with the force of it.

The rain came down and before they knew it they were in the middle of a downpour. They sheltered in a doorway
not far from Kelly’s Corner. Charlie knew they were so near Stamer Street they could almost make a run for it but he didn’t want to leave the stillness of the doorway. He couldn’t bear the thought of saying good night. She’d only a light cardigan on, so he took off his jacket to drape it over her shoulders. Her hair was drenched now, hanging in rats’ tails down her back, but she still looked beautiful, even though she was paler than any girl he’d ever seen. He wondered would she be offended if he asked about her iron intake. He realised that this was not the moment to mention it, but made a mental note to remember to talk to her about her diet.

‘Let’s dance in the rain,’ she said suddenly.

He wished she wouldn’t do that to his jacket, but before he knew it she was whirling him around. Round and round in the pouring rain. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three, one-two-three. She was light as a feather and threw her head back and laughed at his clumsy, scooping clodhopper of a waltz. He was a little offended, until he realised that she was enjoying herself hugely with him. The laughing was nothing to take offence at.

Maybe next time a dance would be the thing, and maybe by then he’d feel he knew her well enough for the crossbar. The rain had eased off by the time they got to the bridge. They were just turning the corner to walk home along the canal when he heard the hollering, like an Indian war cry: the type of sound you make when you’re a little boy climbing a tree and you fan your hand back and forward over your mouth.

‘Charlie Byrne.’

There were two figures in the road in front of them. He noticed that Elsa had slipped a little behind him.

‘Charlie Byrne. You’re a dark horse, boy.’

As they got closer, Charlie realised it was Bobby Coyle, drunk. The other fellow was an old schoolfriend of Bobby’s
he’d met once or twice in O’Neill’s, a civil servant of some sort. They were both in their LDF uniforms.

‘Come here to me, Byrne, and show me your young lady. Don’t be shy, now, she’s a fine-looking girl. Isn’t that a fine-looking girl, Sullivan?’

Charlie sensed Elsa move closer to him. He reached out and took her hand. When he caught her eye, he realised that she was trying to interpret the situation from his own reactions, so he did his best to smile at Bobby. ‘This is Miss Elsa Frankel,’ he said.

Bobby looked over at Sullivan and made a face. Sullivan tittered like a girl. ‘Was that a reel you were attempting, Elsie?’

Elsa turned into Charlie’s shoulder and he put his arm round her in response. ‘Leave her be, Bobby, she doesn’t understand a word you say.’

‘So, you’re not a Corkwoman then, Elsie?’ said Bobby. He and Sullivan collapsed in laughter. Sullivan was wrapped round the lamppost at his friend’s wit, clapping his hand on his thigh. ‘You’re some fella, Bobby. No bout adoubt it.’

But Bobby wasn’t listening. ‘What name, did you say? Rankin? Franklin?’

Elsa said nothing but her grip was tightening on Charlie’s arm. He put his hand on hers, rubbing it in what he hoped was a reassuring kind of way, but she gripped tighter still.

By now, Sullivan was recovering from his laughing fit. ‘You’re a right dark horse, Byrne. Where’ve you been hiding this one? A bit backward in coming forward isn’t she, Byrne? A dark horse like your man, are you Elsie?’

Charlie’s arm was beginning to hurt. He’d be amazed if there wasn’t a bruise in the morning.

‘Jesus, I love you,’ said Bobby. ‘I hope she’s a bit friendlier with you, Charlie. I hope you get a bit more out of her than that. Sure we haven’t heard a peep yet. Have a go there Sullivan, see what you can get out of the lovely Elsie Rankin.’

Sullivan took one step towards Elsa and she was off. ‘Thanks for nothing,’ Charlie shouted back at the two men as he set off after her.

He caught up with her in no time, just a street away. She was panicky, huddled against a wall, her face shiny with tears. He was puzzled. It seemed to be such an overreaction. Bobby Coyle was an awful eejit, but he wasn’t a thug. As for Sullivan, he was just a muck savage. It was an unpleasant end to the night but if she’d stood her ground they’d just have gone away. He couldn’t understand what had frightened her so much. Because he was sure now that fear was what he’d seen in her eyes. Not annoyance or irritation but fear.

At first, she shrugged him off. He drew away a long strand of hair from in front of her face. She breathed in sharply and turned to look at him. It was as though she’d emerged from a tunnel. She let him put his arms around her and buried her face in his shoulder. As he held her, he could feel her sobs come in a little bundle, then subside again until eventually her breathing evened out.

‘If you knew Bobby Coyle, you’d laugh that he could be given a uniform by anyone.’

He expected her to laugh but she didn’t. She looked up at him. ‘Where I come from even the worst of men have a uniform.’

He realised that she was soaking wet, what with having no Mackintosh and her shoes just light patent leather things. He felt terrible sending her home to the Abrahamsons in this state. The first time he’d taken her out and here she was, sodden with tears and Dublin rain. They walked up to the next bridge then back down the other side of the canal. Along by the backs of the houses, he asked her what she meant about the uniforms.

‘They don’t need to wear uniforms to be cruel. Sometimes it’s enough to be called Professor, Doctor, whatever. But the
ones who wear uniforms are even worse because cruelty is what’s expected of them.’

‘All this and yet it’s your home.’

‘Home is gone. We don’t have any home.’

‘But your parents, your school friends, all your memories must be there.’

She screwed up her face and shook her face so fast it was blurred. He started to ask her more but she held up her hand to stop him.

‘Are there letters?’ he asked. ‘Can you write to them?’

As soon as he said it, he remembered what Bethel had told him and he wished he could bite back the question.

She shook her head, just once this time. ‘Not any more. How do you write to people who are trying not to exist?’

They sat on a bench, half hidden by the reeds that arched up behind them.

‘I’m not even meant to be here,’ she said. ‘They didn’t know what to do with me in Belfast. There wasn’t anywhere else to go, except for the Farm. What would I do on a farm? It was so long, that time in Belfast with no piano, no one to talk to. I just want to stay where I am.’ She gripped his arm, and that alarmed him all over again because he wasn’t sure he knew enough about the world to be able to keep her safe in it, and he knew that he wanted, more than anything, to be the one who could do just that. ‘I didn’t know they put your name in the newspaper, your address even, just for winning a little competition.’ She began to cry again, swiping away the tears with her knuckles. ‘Bethel says don’t worry. He says they’d never send me away. Not now. He says that’s not the way they do things in Ireland. Someone would just turn a blind eye and that would be fine. It is just another thing I am not to worry about, now that I am in Ireland, where there is no war. I am not to worry about Mama or Papa. Certainly not Aunt Hanne or Uncle Rudi. As for old Frau Hirsch who lives on her own
… Don’t worry. Don’t worry.’ Her hands were clutching at the hem of her skirt, stretching it taut, then pulling and pulling, as if she might rip the cloth in two.