Trinidad Street (15 page)

‘But Mr Turner!’ The boy was aghast. ‘What about our job? We got to get down the Vic –’

‘Sod the job. I’m getting him home, or to the hospital. Reckon it might well be the hospital.’

He steered the
Edith
in, and the boy leapt across on to the outer barge and made fast. Harry examined his friend by the lamp’s yellow light. There were bruises and lacerations all over his body, but what worried him most was the head wound. He tore his shirt into strips and bound it round Tom’s skull.

‘And God knows how much more water he got inside of him,’ he said. ‘We got to be very careful how we carry him.’

Between them, Harry and the boy picked Tom up and lifted him from barge to barge. He moaned as they manhandled him up on to the wharf.

‘I wish I knew who done this to him,’ Harry said. ‘If I ever find out, I’ll do them in.’

Will stood in the entrance of the ward, nervously clutching a paper bag of apples. Two rows of beds stood before him, each bed exactly like the next, with polished frame, green cover, sick patient. The brown floor shone and there was a strong smell of carbolic. The sense of rigid order and conformity was intimidating. He was on foreign ground here, ruled over by the nurses in their starched blue and white uniforms who stared icily at the visitors, resenting the intrusion into their territory.

The small crowd of people who had come in with him dispersed amongst the twenty-four beds. They spoke in hushed tones as if they were in church. Will walked slowly down the ward, looking at the ones with no visitors. Some were sitting up looking quite fit, others were quiet and still. He avoided their eyes. Sick people made him uneasy.

He found his father almost at the furthest end. Tom’s eyes were closed and he was lying quite still on his back in the neat bed, his head swathed in bandages. What could be seen of his face was grey against the white pillow. Shock kicked Will in the guts. His father looked ten years older.

As he stood staring, his father’s eyes flickered open, unfocused and bewildered, blinking at the ceiling lights. Will plucked up courage and stepped forward.

‘Dad? Dad, it’s me, Will.’

Tom’s head did not move, but the eyes swivelled round to find his.

‘Son?’ His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

Will drew the wooden chair up close to the bed and leaned over. ‘How are you, Dad?’

A long pause, then, ‘I’ll live.’

‘That’s the spirit, Dad.’

He sought for something to say. Usually he had no difficulty speaking with his father. They had plenty in common. But a barrier of guilt now stood between them. Will cleared his throat.

‘Mum sends her love. She’ll be over to see you tomorrow. They’re only allowing you one visitor at a time.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Maisie sends her love, too. And the kids. Everyone’s been asking after you. The whole street. They all been in and out making sure Mum’s all right and wanting to know how you are. If they ever find out who done this to you they’ll tear them apart. They’re real mad about it, Dad, I can tell you. Out for blood, they are.’

He was not sure whether his father had heard or not. His eyes had closed again.

‘Dad?’

The bloodless lips moved slowly. Will leant forward until his head was nearly level with Tom’s.

‘The funeral . . .’

Shock closely followed by fear chased through Will’s hollow stomach.

‘You’re not going to die, Dad. You’re on the mend. You’re going to get better.’

Impatience lit the tired eyes. ‘No, Wilkins – Wilkins’ funeral.’

‘Oh!’ Will almost laughed in relief. Here was something he could say to please his father. ‘That’s tomorrow. Don’t you worry, Dad, it’ll be a good do. The collection’s something amazing. He’ll have the lot – horses, black plumes, everything. A real proper send-off. That’s real good news, ain’t it, Dad?’ he said hopefully. As long as they could keep off the subject of the night of the meeting, he was all right.

He looked for some sign of approval, but still his father seemed agitated. He listened again.

‘The men – are they still out?’

This was the other question he had been dreading. But at least he had worked out how to answer it.

‘That ship’s not moved. Rest of the stuff’s still lying there in her hold.’

He prayed that his father would accept this; it was the truth. The ship which had caused all the trouble was still blacked, together with her cargo. But that was not the whole story. The rest of the strike had already collapsed. All through the docks, ships were moving as usual.
The news of Tom’s brutal treatment, though it had angered dockers all over the Island, had also shown them what happened to agitators. That and sheer need had driven them back.

‘You got to have meetings. Keep it going. Marches. Keep their spirits up.’

He had accepted it. Will hastened to keep up the illusion. ‘Yeah, I’ll tell them, Dad. Meetings.’

‘No!’ Anger turned the whisper into a full voice. The effect was as shocking as if he had shouted. ‘You – you got to do it.’ His father’s eyes glared at him.

Will gaped back at him. ‘Me?’

‘You. You got to speak at the funeral. That’s the time to get ’em.’

Will was horrified. He could not do that. He did not know how to. That was for the Wilkins family, or if not, for one of the union men.

‘I – I can’t.’

His father’s eyes closed. He was so still that Will thought he had gone to sleep. He was about to creep away when the lips moved one more time.

‘Where was you, son?’

The effort of speaking was almost too much for him, the words coming out slowly, slurred at the edges. But Will knew only too well what he meant. The guilt that had been lying heavy on his heart welled up and swamped him. He could not answer. His mouth opened and shut, but no words came. He could not admit to the truth, nor had he the face to lie.

‘She’s a – good girl – Maisie.’

So he knew. Will held his head in his hands. There was no point trying to explain. His father would never understand. There was no way in which he could describe the effect Siobhan had on him. She only had to look at him and he was lost. If she sent half a smile in his direction, he came running. He was helpless. She led him into a tangle of deceptions, setting up tales to cover their meetings. He could see her enjoying the knots he tied himself in to get away and see her, enjoying the power she had over his life.

‘Son?’

He could not meet his father’s eyes.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered at his knees. ‘Yeah, she is.’

Maisie was all right. She was a good mother to the kids, she kept the house clean and fed him well, she never argued or nagged. But compared with Siobhan she was colourless.

‘You got to speak to them. For me.’

Will did not follow him. ‘Who, Dad? Speak to who?’

A nurse came up, stiff and officious in her white starched apron.

‘Ten minutes only allowed with this patient. He needs to save his strength.’

A shadow of frustration clouded his father’s face. He made a last effort. The words came out quite clearly.

‘At the funeral. Promise.’

Understanding dawned. Will was to take his father’s place, make speeches to the men, inspire them, lead them to victory. It was a huge burden, and he did not want it. He did not want the responsibility, did not want to pledge the total commitment it would demand.

‘Your ten minutes is up. Would you leave now, please.’

Easy enough to obey the woman to put his father off with some half-promise. Will hesitated, tempted. After all, his father was in no state to insist. He could simply walk away. But he could not get away from the consequences. His father was lying there now, weak and helpless, because he had been out with Siobhan when he should have been at the meeting. If they had walked home together, they could have put up a much better fight; it might only have been a matter of bruises and black eyes. It might not have happened at all, for the sort of bullies who would set upon a single man would hesitate to take on two. It was his fault.

He looked at the man in the crisply made bed, at the motionless hump beneath the green cover, at the drawn features and pallid skin. It had been touch and go. If it had not been for Harry’s quick action, his father would now be one more body floating down the Thames. Will reached out and touched his arm.

‘Don’t you worry, Dad. I’ll see to it. You just get yourself better.’

Tom’s eyes closed. His face relaxed. He said nothing, but Will was sure he had heard.

The nurse took hold of his arm. ‘You’re doing him immense harm, tiring him like this. Now go.’

Will ignored her. He bent over the bed. ‘I’ll let you know how it’s all going. ’Bye, Dad.’

He negotiated the miles of brown corridors and emerged at last with vast relief into the noise and bustle of the Mile End Road. The traffic, the dirt and the crowds of people were a tonic after the oppressive atmosphere of the hospital. Will stood for a moment on the steps, and the implications of what he had promised to do finally hit him. He tried to picture himself standing at the graveside, addressing the mourners. All those people looking at him, listening as he struggled to speak. It terrified him.

He began to walk up the road, weighed down by the enormity of it. His father always knew what to say. Perhaps if he just used his father’s words. Perhaps he could just convey his father’s message to the other union men. That was it. The weight lifted a little. He would tell the other leaders that his father was still fighting from his hospital bed, that he was still with them in spirit. Then they could tell the host of dockers who would be sure to be there at the funeral. Relieved beyond measure, he pushed aside the uncomfortable knowledge that this was not at all what his father expected of him.

Gerry sat back on his heels and stared at the stains on his brother’s discarded pair of trousers. There was river mud and a greenish bit that could be seaweed and a rust-red patch. He was sure none of that had been there the last time he had seen him go out in them, the night Tom Johnson was set upon. He tried to call that evening to mind. They had all had tea together, his mum, Charlie and himself. It was just the three of them at home now that Will and Maisie and their brats had got a place of their own. He tried to recall the conversation. His mum had said she was going out.

‘I been asked out for a drink, so I won’t be back till late, with a bit of luck. You boys doing anything?’

Gerry had told her that he had to go and see a man about a box of sewing thread before his usual chore of seeing the shop was locked up and the takings secure. Charlie had said nothing.

‘What about you, Charlie?’ his mother had asked. ‘You going out?’

Charlie had shrugged. ‘Might do. Might go ’n’ see the lads.’

Gerry had only seen his brother’s mates from a distance. They went to different pubs, lived different lives. But what he had seen of them he did not like. They were the dregs from Manilla Street and beyond.

His mum had gone out first, then Gerry, leaving Charlie at home by himself. There was no way of knowing when he had left, but he had still been out when Gerry got back. The deal over the sewing thread had not materialized. It had been a wasted evening. He remembered he had been getting ready for bed when his mum came in. You could hear her coming down the road, singing at the top of her voice and laughing. The front door banged open and a draught whipped through.

‘’Night, darling. It’s been lovely. Lovely evening. Best I ever had.’

Half the street must have heard her. She was an embarrassment, his mother.

There was a scuffle on the doorstep. Gerry pulled his trousers back
on. He was not having his mother inviting men in with all the neighbours listening. He went downstairs. There she was, propped up against the doorframe, coat all undone, hat askew, giggling helplessly while a skinny sailor with his arms wrapped round her tried to kiss her.

‘Thanks for walking her home,’ he said in his most repressive voice.

The sailor looked up in alarm.

‘You can go now,’ Gerry told him.

His mother put an arm round the man’s shoulders. She could have made two of him.

‘This is my friend. He ain’t going home yet. He ain’t got no home.’

‘Well, he’s not staying here,’ Gerry insisted.

There was a struggle, and at last Gerry managed to get the door shut with himself and his mother inside and the sailor outside. Always affable, and more so when drunk, she promptly forgot about the sailor and allowed herself to be propelled upstairs to bed. Gerry lay awake, listening to her snores.

It was sometime after that that Charlie had crept in. Gerry was too tired himself by then to even acknowledge having heard him, let alone make any comment, but in the morning he saw the cuts and bruises on his brother’s knuckles.

‘Been in a fight?’ he asked.

Charlie glanced down at his hands. A wary look came into his eyes, swiftly followed by truculence.

‘So what if I have?’

‘Just wondered.’

‘Well, keep your bloody wondering to y’self.’

Gerry shrugged. ‘Keep your hair on. I only asked. I’m not your keeper, thank God. If you want to get yourself into fights, that’s your funeral.’

‘Too right it is. And don’t you bloody forget it.’

Nothing unusual in that, and yet . . .

It was later in the day that he had heard the news about Tom Johnson. Mrs O’Donaghue came into the general store in the West Ferry Road that he looked after for a man who owned a couple of other shops in the area.

‘That poor Martha Johnson. I don’t know how she’s going to manage,’ she said, plumping herself down on the rickety wooden chair placed ready for customers.

‘Mrs Johnson? What’s the matter with her?’ Gerry asked.

‘Tis not her, ’tis himself. Have you not heard? ’Tis all over the neighbourhood. Well . . .’ Mrs O’Donaghue settled in for a good tale,
elaborating all the gory details. Gerry listened with growing horror. It was a dreadful thing to happen, for Tom and for all the Johnsons. He hadn’t much time for Will Johnson, but Tom was a fine sort of bloke and his missus a real brick, while Ellen – he had not forgotten dancing with Ellen at the coronation party. It was only the fact that she was still a schoolgirl that stopped him from asking her out of a Saturday night.