Michele Forbes - Ghost Moth

Appalled at herself. Appalled at where her own desires had brought her. Not quite comprehending how she was allowing herself to behave so irresponsibly. Sinfully, perhaps? Appalled at how she was resisting nothing. Most of all, appalled at how she had betrayed George. How could she ever forgive herself?

There was one thing she would have to do to redeem herself. She would have to bring it all out into the open. She would have to be brave enough to face the consequences. She would have to tell George what had happened and that it was over between them.

She touched the rosary beads in her pocket again. She gazed at her reflection in the misted window. She was a phantom silver shape in her pearl gray coat against the princess blue leather of the seat.

The trolley bus reached the corner of Templemore Avenue and, as she stood up from her seat, the conductor pulled once on the bell rope. She disembarked at McMordie’s Hardware shop and, crossing Castlereagh Street, she reached her destination within a matter of minutes.

It was a modest ceremony; a group of perhaps fifty people had gathered in the main holding area of the station. Among them were George’s mother, Anna, his father, William, and his older twin sisters. Four fire engines sat two behind two, each machine primed for maneuver at a moment’s notice. The firemen stood on one side of the vehicles, their families and friends on the other.

George’s mother and father greeted Katherine with wide smiles. She stood beside them and listened as the deputy chief fire officer opened the proceedings, informing guests that a short display would be presented by the firemen after Mr. Balmer, senior consultant of the Ulster Hospital, had said a few words, and that some of the doctors, working in the restored wing of the hospital, would introduce themselves, and that there would be refreshments — tea, coffees, sandwiches — kindly provided by the women parishioners of the local Church of Ireland, at the end of the evening.

Katherine caught the look of pride on Anna Bedford’s face and the seriousness of William Bedford’s expression, which immediately had softened into the round face of a beaming boy when his son had smiled at him. She saw George’s twin sisters, Heather and Susan, giggling and whispering comments about the young firemen who flanked the four glistening fire engines, suddenly respectfully hold their composure as Mr. Balmer stepped forward to make his address. She heard the singular, dry, nervous cough she knew to be George’s as his name was called out in special acknowledgment of his exceptional contribution in raising money for the funds. She watched as George walked past her to shake Mr. Balmer’s hand. How smart in his uniform, how handsome humility made him, how gentle and loving his smile as he turned to her, how proud she felt, how wretched she felt, how she felt her body and mind disintegrating where she stood, feeling she was falling away in pieces, crumbling like old, dried skin. She must tell him. She must tell him about Tom. Words echoing, ringing in this cavern of light and steel in which she now felt captive. The heat of the room in her pearl gray woolen coat. The glare of the lights on the high ceiling. Her stomach hot. The flash of gleaming red from the fire engines. Her head tight. The heat in her woolen coat. Her legs unstable. And her body collapsing like a door blown shut.

In the last moments of consciousness, she could hear George calling to her, and a slack, embarrassed laugh from the crowd who had gathered around her as someone asked, “Is there a doctor in the house?”

George had taken Katherine home after the Fire Service ceremony and had urged her to rest the following day, but she had gone into work regardless, informing her mother over breakfast that she felt better and only a little tired. All day at work, she battled with herself. Blaming herself for not telling George about Tom, hating the fact that she had lost her nerve. Next time I see George, I promise I’ll end it, she said to herself. Next time.

At five o’clock, Morna McFarlane from the Arrears Department at the Ulster Bank offices asked Katherine to join her and a few of the cashiers for a drink at Sherries. But too eager to meet up with Tom again, Katherine declined with her usual excuse.

“You’re terrible, you are. You and your singin’.” If I didn’t know any better, Katherine Fallon, I’d have said you had a wee fancy man hidden away there somewhere!” Morna pushed her round chin into the air and pressed her plump hands against her ample chest. “Wait till I tell George.” She laughed loudly, then pulled on her heavy wool coat.

Katherine smiled nervously.

“Don’t look so shocked — unless, of course, you do have a wee fancy man!” Morna fastened four big brass buttons. “Well, come here to me — next time you’re going out, you’re going out with me— right!”

Katherine nodded.

“It’s just them two new cashiers — Helen and Sheila — they’re no fun. All they talk about is illnesses and operations and who’s died and who didn’t die but nearly died. Like two old crows.” Morna busily fixed the straps of her leather handbag over her arm as she spoke. “Right,” she said, shaking her head in resignation, “I’m off. I’ll see ye tomorrow, then!” Then just before she disappeared around the corner of the corridor, Morna turned her head and shouted back to Katherine, “And don’t forget to say hello to your wee fancy man for me!”

As Katherine approached the tailors’ rooms that evening, the door swung open as though it was being wrenched off its hinges and Ivy rushed out past her with tears streaming down her face. By the time Katherine turned to her to ask her what was wrong, Ivy had disappeared down the stairs and was gone. Katherine found Tom in the anteroom, sitting quietly at his worktable. He lifted his head and smiled at her as she entered the room.

“What’s wrong with Ivy — with Miss Beacham?” said Katherine, perplexed.

“Oh, nothing. . nothing.”

Katherine stared hard at Tom. “Nothing? Didn’t you see she was in floods of tears?”

“She’s upset.”

Katherine couldn’t hide her concern. “I can see she’s upset! But why is she upset? What happened?”

“I think it’s unrequited love,” Tom said casually, and went back to his work.

Katherine felt pricked by his nonchalance. “That’s a bit coldhearted. What if she needs someone to talk to?”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“She told me you had ‘money issues’ with Mr. Boyne,” Katherine said abruptly.

“She told you what?” Tom lifted his head.

“She told me you were gambling and that you’d lost a lot of money. What did she mean, Tom? Are you in trouble?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Please, Tom, you can tell me anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell. Don’t mind what Miss Beacham says — she’s prone to hysterics at the best of times. Really, Katherine, everything is fine.”

“But why would she say such a thing if it wasn’t true?”

“It isn’t true, Katherine, I promise you. Miss Beacham has a very active imagination — and has all day to sit and feed it! Don’t pay any attention to her. Come here to me.” He held his arms out to her. She embraced him, but as he held her, she felt a chill rinse over her skin.

It was Wednesday night, the opening night of Carmen. From where she stood in her shadowy corner behind the scenery flats of the church hall, Katherine watched Charlie Copeland rocking to and fro on a little wooden stool. The stool sat to the side of an array of street sellers’ baskets and wooden wheelbarrows, which were to be brought on after the overture. It wasn’t the first time she had witnessed this self-imposed incarceration of Charlie’s, from which, this time, it seemed to her, he could not release himself. She watched his strained yet muted expression and knew it to be merely a faint extenuation of the whole fevered scenario going on inside his head. Charlie’s glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, which was moist with sweat. He nervously pushed them back. Charlie had only ever sung onstage before as part of the chorus and now, as Zuniga, he had lines to say — had lines to “deliver,” as the director had put it. With very little time to go before “curtain up,” he had the demeanor of a man preparing not for his first performance, but for his own execution.