Chrissie's Children (26 page)

‘That was a lovely picture.’ Dolly Simmons clung tightly to Tom’s arm as they came out of the cinema. He had not gone to the launching because he had to work
in the yard on the Tyne. He was disappointed but philosophical: ‘I’ve seen launches before and I’ll see a lot more.’

Dolly had not been interested, except that it meant he had been able to escort her to the cinema. Tom took her on one night of every week now. Dolly would have liked to have gone more often but
Tom attended evening classes or studied in his room on the other evenings. So Dolly would go out on her own: ‘I’m off to see Mavis, Mam.’ She worked with Mavis, serving behind the
counter of a cake shop.

Now she said, ‘I think that Deanna Durbin is a lovely singer.’ She prattled on about the films they had seen and Tom listened. She was a pretty girl and he had become fond of her.
When they reached her front door she lowered her voice. The lights are out. They’ve gone to bed.’

Tom replied softly, ‘No need to wake them. I’ve got my key.’ The house was silent. When he closed the door behind them they stood in the pitch darkness of the hall. They paused
a moment, breath held, and heard the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece in the parlour. Dolly groped for and found Tom’s hand, squeezed it, then led him to the foot of the stairs and up.
On the landing she drew him past her parents’ room and his own and so to her door. She turned to him then and slipped her arms around his neck, stood on her toes and kissed him. For a moment
he was surprised by her intensity, the pressure of her body on his, then he returned the kiss. Now she was pressed back against her door and it gave to that pressure, swung silently open. They
staggered, she falling backwards and taking him with her, as if in a clumsy dance. Then her legs were against the bed and she was falling.

Tom saved her and they swayed for a moment. She reached out one hand to close the door and whispering, lied, ‘You can stay for just five minutes.’

March 1938

Sophie lied, ‘I’m just going into the town.’

Tom stood at her open door, handsome in dark blue blazer and grey trousers, and asked, ‘You’ve finished packing?’

‘All done.’ Sophie jerked her thumb at the two suitcases by her bed. Solly Rosenberg had found her a month’s work singing with a band in Yorkshire, starting in Leeds. Chrissie
had raised no objection, no longer sure if she was right to stand in the way of Sophie’s ambition.

Tom said, ‘I’ll come with you.’ He was home for the weekend and this was Saturday night.

Sophie tried to dissuade him. ‘Don’t you want to go to the pictures?’

‘I go one night in the week; that’s enough. I’ll just keep you company.’

That was a nuisance, but Tom was one of the two brothers Sophie adored, and she reluctantly agreed. ‘Come on, then.’ She pulled on the tweed coat she had bought for two guineas on
the strength of the Yorkshire booking.

When they were out of the house and walking down the road to catch their tram, Tom enlarged shyly, ‘I go to the pictures every week with Dolly.’

Sophie questioned, ‘Dolly?’

‘The girl in my digs, Mr and Mrs Simmons’ daughter. She’s about my age.’

‘Well, well, well, well,
well
!’ teased Sophie. ‘You little devil, our Thomas. Taking girls to the pictures now. What next?’

He grinned, able to take this from her. ‘You can cut that out.’

Sophie did, because she had other business. ‘Listen, Tom, I’m not just going into the town. Somebody did me a favour the other day and I have to thank him. I think I can find him at
the club. You might find one or two people know me, because I’ve done some singing there.’ Then she told him about winning the talent contest and also how Peter Robinson had saved her
from McNally. She found it hard not to shiver when she recounted that episode and Tom bristled. ‘But I don’t want Mother to know about this. She’s letting me go out to sing, but
if she heard about that she would want to stop me again. So keep quiet, please.’

Tom grumbled, still outraged, but agreed.

At the club Sophie revised her opinion of Tom. ‘You’ll be some use after all.’ She pointed at the door of the gym. ‘I daren’t go in there, so you can. I want to see
Peter Robinson if he’s there. If he isn’t, ask if Joe Nolan can come out for a word.’

Tom shoved through the door into the gym. At that moment another door opened and Sarah Tennant stepped out into the passage. Sophie greeted her. ‘Hello, Sarah. You’re still working
here, then?’

Sarah smiled and nodded. ‘When I’m not at night school.’

Now Tom emerged from the gym and stopped dead, staring at Sarah. She said shyly, ‘Hello.’

Sophie asked, ‘Did you see him?’

Tom started, glanced at her and asked, ‘What?’ then, remembering his errand, he reported, ‘Joe Nolan is there and he’ll be out in a minute.’ And then to Sarah,
‘Hello.’

Sophie explained, ‘Sarah works here sometimes in the evenings because she isn’t allowed to work overtime at the hotel.’

‘I am now,’ Sarah put in. ‘That only applied when I was under sixteen. But the steward here was good to me so I still work a shift two or three nights a week and save the
money.’

Tom said, ‘I didn’t know.’ And he had not known how Sarah had changed. Though Sarah had seen him often when he called at the hotel to visit his mother, she had stayed quietly
in the background and he had not seen her for over a year. In that time she had grown and the top of her head came up to his shoulder now. She was just turned seventeen and though still shy she had
acquired an assurance while working with Chrissie Ballantyne. Tom stared at this stranger and Sophie watched him thoughtfully.

Then the door of the gym flapped open and Joe Nolan joined the little group in the passage. He addressed Sophie brusquely. ‘You’re the lass looking for Peter?’

‘That’s right. I—’

Joe cut her off. ‘If you’ll tell me where he can find you I’ll give him a message.’

But Sophie wouldn’t settle for that. ‘I need to see him now, tonight. I’m going away for a month and I have to see him before I go.’

‘Well, you can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s no place for a young lass like yourself.’

Sophie flared. ‘I think I can make up my own mind about that. What is he up to?’

Joe knew determination when he saw it. He admitted reluctantly, ‘He’s fighting. Bare-knuckle fighting. It’s illegal.’ Sophie had not known that it still went on. Joe
continued, ‘I want nothing to do with it.’

Sophie protested, ‘But you taught him to fight.’

Joe smiled sourly. ‘I taught him to box. He was born a fighter.’

She was shaken by Joe’s disapproval but nevertheless she persisted, ‘I want to see him – tonight.’

Joe sighed. ‘All right.’ He jerked a thumb at Tom. ‘Who’s this?’

‘My brother.’

Joe asked Tom, ‘Have you been listening?’ When Tom nodded Joe said, ‘Then you’ll be a witness that I’m doing this because your lass here would have it. I
don’t want her father down here blaming me.’ Tom nodded again and shifted uneasily, aware that if anything happened to Sophie, Jack would be asking questions of Tom himself.

‘Come on, then,‘Joe said, and led them out of the club and down to the river, threading the dark streets for ten minutes or more. Soon they came to an alley that formed a black gulf
between two big sheds. There was a circle of yellow lamplight halfway down the alley and a man standing at its entrance. He was the look-out, posted there to keep watch and give warning if the
pollis appeared. He wore working clothes that were grimy with coal and oil. His hands were jammed in his trousers pockets, his shoulders hunched and jacket collar turned up against the cold wind
that whistled between the sheds, bringing a fine rain in from the sea. He called, ‘Here! Where d’ye think you’re going?’

Joe Nolan did not check in his stride, only snapped back, ‘Down to see the scrapping. What d’ye want? A ticket?’

The man grinned with recognition. ‘I didn’t see it was you, Joe. Gan on in.’

Joe was already leading Tom and Sophie deeper into the gulf, and the look-out’s words were submerged by the shouting from the crowd ahead. The men in the crowd were comfortably dressed
against the bitter chill of the night and the drizzling rain that had turned the ground in the makeshift ring into slippery mud. As the fighters, both stripped to the waist, danced, ducked, punched
and panted they sucked in great lungfuls of air, which in that ring smelt of coal smoke and soot, whisky and beer, sweat and linament.

The spectators were well fed, many smoking cigars and with their motor cars parked not far away. They were there because they could afford it, and they were devotees of bare-knuckle contests.
They had paid Fannon because he had set up the fight and they betted with him. He had the money stuffed in the bulging pockets of his raincoat, buttoned tight over his belly.

Sophie knew nothing of this, was only aware that the shouting died as she came to the fringe of the crowd. Joe Nolan stopped then and told her, ‘Look, lass, you don’t want to see . .
.’

‘Yes, I do!’

Joe growled irritably and shoved into the crowd, elbowing his way, and the men there, knowing him, parted to let him through. Sophie followed on his heels, hearing the raucous breathing and the
butcher’s-block thudding of fists on flesh, smelling the oil and smoke on the clothes of the crowd, the sweat. She was sickened and wondered what awaited her. Then she was peering into the
ring. She recognised with shock that one of the fighters was the big crop-headed man who had seized her in the alley. And the other . . .

It was the biggest crowd Gallagher, though ostensibly Fannon, had gathered for a fight. Peter now had a string of successes behind him and McNally had a reputation locally as a bruiser.
Gallagher had also dropped hints that rapidly became circulating rumours, that McNally was growing old and was now too slow to take on the rising young star. So they had come to see a new champion
crowned – and to make money by backing him. Gallagher had been preparing the ground for this bout for months. Fannon had taken bets in handfuls of notes and coins, most of it on Peter
Robinson. Fannon, Gallagher and McNally were looking forward to making a killing – in more ways than one.

McNally had come primed to destroy Peter and had tried his hardest, but Peter had learned a lot from Joe Nolan and more later in the ring of experience since Gallagher had been arranging fights
for him – though Peter thought that was Fannon’s work. Peter had boxed his man for fifteen minutes. He moved quickly but carefully on the treacherous ground, because a slip could leave
him open to McNally’s big fists. He watched his opponent to the exclusion of all else and did not see the open-mouthed, shouting faces around him. One moment they were lost in semi-darkness,
the next lit yellow as the wind swung the oil lamp on the wall. He heard them only as an animal-like growl around him. He had anticipated and countered all McNally’s dirty tricks and worn him
down. McNally was half a head taller and two stones heavier but he was tiring now. Peter had taken some punishment but he was still strong.

He blocked a punch from McNally that lacked strength, and replied with a blow below the bigger man’s heart that had him grunting and folding in pain. McNally’s hands lowered and
Peter saw his chance. His fist connected with McNally’s jaw and he spun then fell face down in the dirt and mud of the alley. The bellowing of the crowd was stilled.

Peter felt savage satisfaction, the slights and insults of months and years avenged. Then he remembered the money: he would collect ten pounds from Fannon for this fight, a fortune! He sucked in
great breaths of air now, filling his chest, and ran a hand with bloody, skinned knuckles across his face, wiping away the sweat, smearing the gore.

And so Sophie saw him, naked to the waist and running with sweat, his body blotched with bruises and stained by the blood fallen from his face and his opponent’s. In that one split second
her mind photographed the scene: the circle of sweating faces, the fat man in the tight raincoat, and the narrow-eyed, muscular man by his side, both of them glaring hatred at Peter.

Peter stared at her white face in the crowd, saw the eyes wide and lips parted in shock. Joe Nolan stepped in front of her, grim faced, and spoke to Peter. ‘See us back at the club when
you’ve cleaned yourself up.’ Then he turned and pushed his way out of the crowd, herding Tom and Sophie before him.

When they were clear of the press he said brusquely, ‘Well, you’ve seen him. Satisfied?’ He glanced at Sophie. She did not reply but her drawn face was answer enough. She was
trying to reconcile the Peter she knew with the fighting machine she had seen this night – and failing. Joe grunted and led her and Tom back to the club.

The crowd left behind them was shifting now, some who had betted on McNally drifting away up the alley, grumbling at the money they had lost. Most of the men now gathered around Fannon to
collect their winnings. His face was a sickly green and shone oily with sweat in the light from the lamps hung on the shed wall. He squeaked again and again, ‘You’ll get your money!
Just let me pay you one at a time! You’ll get your money!’ Gallagher stood by his side, holding off the more importunate.

Peter took a towel and his shirt and jacket from the man who had acted as his second, and who was now impatient to collect his own winnings and said hurriedly, ‘You fought a great fight,
young ‘un.’ Then he elbowed his way into the crowd.

Peter followed him. His heart was still thumping from the battle, his mind still filled with that picture of Sophie’s face, but he wanted his money. That was, after all, the reason he had
fought. So he pushed to the front and stood before Fannon, held out his hand. Fannon licked his lips then said, voice hollow with insincerity, ‘Good lad. You earned every penny. Here
y’are.’ The crowd went quiet as he dipped into the pocket of his raincoat and drew out the pound notes, counted them into Peter’s outstretched hand: ‘. . . eight, nine,
ten.’

Gallagher said nothing but his glare was evil.

Peter crammed the notes into his trousers pocket and eased out of the crowd. As he towelled his face and body then donned his shirt, he saw that McNally had been revived and was now leaning with
his back against the wall of a shed under a lamp. Peter did not go to him because this had been no sporting contest. He turned away and walked out of the alley, pulling on his jacket as he
went.