Trinidad Street (18 page)

‘Oh, Mrs Biggs, have a heart. Her mum’s having a baby.’

‘Yeah, she’s that worried. She can’t help it.’

The forewoman’s grim features softened. ‘That right?’ she asked.

Ellen nodded. ‘Started last night.’

‘And her dad’s up the hospital,’ another girl chipped in.

‘All right, all right. Just let me get my violin out. We’ll all be in tears in a minute.’ Mrs Biggs fixed Ellen with her boiled-gooseberry eyes. ‘I’ll overlook it this time, but just be more careful for the rest of the day, right?’

‘Yes, Mrs Biggs.’

‘Yes, Mrs Biggs, no Mrs Biggs,’ they all mouthed behind the woman’s back, and giggled. But Ellen felt no better and the day seemed to go on for ever.

Released at last, she pushed her way through the hundreds pouring out of the factory gates and ran back through the drizzling rain. She paused at the greengrocer’s where Daisy worked after school.

‘Daisy!’

Her sister looked up from carrying out a pile of boxes.

‘How’s Mum? Has she had it?’

Daisy shook her head. She looked peaked and anxious. ‘No. Mrs O’Donaghue said it’s going to take ages yet. Said I ought to try and bring home something to make a nice pan of soup.’

‘Oh – good idea. See you later, Daisy.’

Ellen hurried on, worry gnawing at her guts.

Trinidad Street was practically empty. A couple of little girls were wheeling a pram with two crying babies inside, and a group of boys were playing leapfrog, slipping on the wet cobbles as they landed. Jack broke away from them and ran up to her.

‘Mrs O’Donaghue says I’m to go to Jimmy Croft’s for tea. Is that right, Ellen?’

Ellen supposed it was. It didn’t do to have kids hanging round the house at these times. Mrs O’Donaghue had certainly got things well organized.

‘Mind you thank Mrs Croft proper,’ she told him.

Jimmy appeared at his side. ‘My mum don’t mind. She says the more the merrier,’ he said.

‘Good, thanks.’ Ellen left them and sprinted the last twenty yards home.

The place seemed to be full of women. They were all sitting round the kitchen table drinking tea and talking in low voices charged with meaning. They stopped abruptly when Ellen entered.

‘How’s my mum?’

There was a brief pause. ‘Oh, she’s coming along fine, dearie. Just going to take a while, that’s all.’

The group of heads nodded.

Ellen knew they were lying. ‘I want to see her.’

‘Not now, dearie. You’re too young. Your time’ll come soon enough.’

‘But she’s my mum. I can help her. She needs me.’

‘She’s got all us here to help her. Been one of us with her all day, there has, and will be all night. She won’t never be left on her own; you know that.’

They meant well, she realized, but they were treating her like a kid. She hated every one of them – sitting in her house like a lot of old witches, cackling over their own deliveries while upstairs her mother was in pain.

From above came a cry, hardly recognizable. Ellens’ heart contracted in fear. She whisked out of the kitchen, pounded up the stairs and raced into the front bedroom. There she stopped short just inside the door. Her mother was lying on her back on a dishevelled bed. There were no covers on her, her knees were raised and spread, and her nightgown was pulled up to the great swelling belly so that she could see her naked legs, pale and blotched with purple veins, and between them a bulging red wound fringed with hair. Ellen stood and stared, shocked rigid.

‘What you doing here? You get off downstairs.’

She had not even seen Mrs O’Donaghue. Now she ignored her. Still gaping in horrified fascination, she forced her frozen limbs to move. Slowly she walked across the cramped room to the head of the bed. Her mother looked years older, her face flushed, her cheeks sunken, her greying hair soaked in sweat. She turned her head as Ellen approached and for a few heart-stopping moments there was no recognition in her glazed eyes.

‘Mum?’ Ellen’s throat was dry. The word came out as a croak.

Her mother’s look sharpened. ‘Ellen? You didn’t ought to be here, love.’ The strained whisper was not at all like her mother’s usual voice.

‘Mum, are you all right?’ Even as she said it she knew it was a stupid question.

‘I will be, lovey, as soon as –’ She broke off, her face contracting in pain.

Instinctively, Ellen clasped the hand that opened and closed on the sheet. The sweating fingers grasped at her, clenching as the pain grew. A low moan broke from her mother’s lips, swelling to a cry. Her head thrashed from side to side. Terrified, Ellen could only watch and wait,
her hand crushed, expecting every moment that her mother was going to die. Then, just as she thought she could not bear it any longer, the grip on her hand relaxed, the cry died away.

Mrs O’Donaghue mopped her mother’s forehead with an old cloth. She fixed Ellen with a look that said clearly
I told you so
.

‘Right, you’ve seen what you come to see, and a lot of good may it do you. Now off you go. You’re not doing your ma no good staying here. And while you’re about it you can tell them downstairs as I could do with a fresh bowl of water and another nip of gin.’

Dumbly, Ellen nodded. She bent down and kissed her mother’s damp cheek.

‘Just hold on, Mum. We all love you.’

There was no answer from the exhausted woman on the bed.

The women downstairs took one look at her face and bit back the scolding they were about to give her. Ellen delivered the message. Milly Turner put an arm round her shoulders.

‘You come back with me, dearie. Have tea with us. Florrie’d like to have you to chat to.’

Ellen shook her head. ‘I’m staying here.’

The women argued and cajoled, but nothing would move her. She could not possibly leave now, not after having seen what her mother was going through.

There was always somebody there. The neighbours she had hated so fiercely earlier were now a lifeline. True to their promise, the women came in and out, seeing to their own families then taking it in turns to relieve Mrs O’Donaghue or sit with Ellen. It seemed to her that as evening turned into night and the hours crept by, the cries upstairs grew more feeble. It was Milly Turner who finally let slip what the problem was.

‘It’s coming out the wrong way round,’ she explained. ‘Usually they come head first. It’s easier that way, you see.’

Ellen stared at her, trying to take this in. ‘You mean – it’s stuck?’ she asked.

‘Well . . .’ Milly looked uncomfortable. ‘Not exactly. But it’s more difficult. And your mum’s not as young as she was.’

Ellen looked up at the ceiling. Fear wound cold fingers round her. Her mother was not going to make it.

Then sometime after midnight there was a long despairing wail from the bedroom. Ellen shot to her feet, her heart pounding. Milly put a hand on her arm.

‘Wait,’ she said.

An urgency in her voice made Ellen obey. They both listened. Then the bedroom door opened and Mrs O’Donaghue called down, weary but triumphant.

‘Will you come up here with plenty of soap and water? We done it. ’Tis a boy.’

Milly hurried to fill a bowl and get fresh cloths. Ellen ran straight upstairs, but Mrs O’Donaghue met her at the door. Her apron was splattered all down the front with blood.

‘You’re not coming in till she’s cleaned up. She’s in no fit state. Wait there.’ She slammed the door in Ellen’s face, only to reappear seconds later with a small bundle wrapped in an old torn sheet. ‘Take this downstairs in the warm. You know how to bath a baby, don’t you? I got to see to your ma.’ She thrust the bundle at Ellen and shouted down to Milly, ‘Bring up all the rags you can lay your hands on.’

Slowly, infinitely carefully, Ellen felt her way into the kitchen. There in the light she gazed at the tiny creased face of her new little brother. He was not beautiful. Smears and clots of blood stuck to his skull, his slitty eyes were puffed and closed and his mouth seemed misshapen. But he was a thing of great wonder.

‘Ah.’ Milly paused to peek at him on her way up. ‘Ain’t he lovely? Ever so quiet, though. Did Clodagh say he was all right?’

Ellen nodded, not taking her eyes off him. The enormity of the responsibility thrust upon her left her speechless. Not daring to put him down, she put more water to heat on the range and found the only receptacle not in use – the mixing bowl – and the last sliver of soap from the sink, together with a shawl and nightie her mother had made ready. Then, sitting cross-legged on the rag rug in front of the range, she unwrapped the soiled bit of sheet. A whimper came from the little mouth. Ellen wept tears of relief. It was all right. He was truly alive. She lowered him gently into the water, marvelling at the tiny limbs, washed away the blood and unstuck his eyelids. The feeble mew came again, but never grew into a proper cry. Ellen dried and dressed him and sat with him cuddled close to the warmth of her body, stroking the down of fair hair. She could scarcely feel him breathing.

She wished he would open his eyes. Perhaps babies did not at first. She spoke softly to him, telling him all about the family he had been born into, about all the things he was going to do when he was older.

Now that he was clean, she wondered if there was something wrong with his colour. She had never seen a new-born baby before so she could not be sure, but the blueish tinge about his mouth worried her.

Mrs O’Donaghue finally came out of the bedroom and collapsed on to a kitchen chair.

‘Give me a cuppa tea, lass. I’m parched.’

The baby still tucked in her arm, Ellen did as she was bid. She was aching to ask about her mother, but somehow the words would not come. She handed the midwife a strong sweet cup of tea and sat cradling the baby, waiting.

Mrs O’Donaghue took several sips, her hands shaking with fatigue.

‘That’s better.’ She put down the cup and rubbed her hands over her face. Then she looked at Ellen. ‘She’s had a bad time, dear. I done all I can for her and she’s sleeping now. She’ll probably sleep for several hours. You can give her the babe to nurse when she wakes. I’m going home now. If there’s any problems, just send for me.’

Ellen thanked her profusely. Her mother had survived. There was hope.

In her gratitude, she forgot to ask about the child’s odd colour. She was still not sure whether it was normal. She was still wondering when two hours later he died in her arms.

ALMA TOOK OUT
all four of her best dresses and threw them over the bed. None of them looked right.

‘Come up the Ferry tonight. There’s someone I want you to meet,’ Harry had said.

She had questioned him, but he had refused to say any more, just laughed and looked mysterious.

‘You wait and see, Aunty Alma. Just come looking your best.’

So here she was, trying to decide. She held the scarlet satin against herself, smoothing the beautiful shiny fabric. She loved this dress. But the boys hated seeing her in it, and she had to admit it did make her look a bit of a tart. The navy wool was her respectable dress. She wore that if she had to go to church, or to visit her more straightlaced relatives. But that was no good for a night out at the pub. The dress she wore last year for the coronation party was nice: a bright blue poplin spotted with white and pink. Very fetching, that had looked, with all the red, white and blue ribbons. But it was a bit on the flimsy side for the middle of winter. So that left the tan-coloured one that Gerry had bought for her down the market only last month. It was a nice dress. Someone posh up the West End had once worn it, and it had only had maybe a couple of owners since. The only trouble was, it was a bit sober for Alma. She preferred a bit of glitter.

She put on the tan dress, did the buttons up with difficulty with the aid of a buttonhook and pinned on as much costume jewellery as she thought she could get away with – earrings, a couple of necklaces, three brooches and an armful of jangly bangles. That was better. Now she looked as if she was going out on the town. She pinned up her heavy hair and crowned it with her favourite hat, the red velvet with the black feathers. Then she stepped back and looked at herself. Yes, she was all right. Not a bad figure for her age. Her teeth let her down a bit, but nobody had all their teeth. No one would guess to look at her what a tough life she had led.

The Ferry was crowded. It was Saturday night and quite a few men
from Trinidad Street had deserted the everyday Rum Puncheon on the corner and ventured just a few streets further.

‘Wotcher, Alma! How you doing?’

‘Evening, girl. On your own? Come and have a drink with us.’

Alma laughed and joked and gave as good as she got. She felt alive again. One very good thing about the Ferry, that little madam Siobhan O’Donaghue would not be there. Siobhan always made her feel as old as the hills and blowsy. No man wanted to look at a middle-aged widow, however well preserved, when that one was about.

She spotted Harry at the table on the far side of the bar. He came over, smiling, and brought her a port and lemon. It always amazed her that Milly and Archie had produced such a son. Tall and well made, with muscular arms and shoulders, a keen face and a crop of curly hair, he was one of the most handsome young men in the area – barring her own two boys, of course. And brains to go with it, as well. That was even more surprising. Alma supposed he must be some sort of throwback.

‘Where’s this person I’m supposed to be meeting, then?’ she asked.

‘He’ll be here, don’t worry. How are you?’

They chatted about the street and about the robbery at the grocer’s over in Cubitt Town.

‘Why a grocer? He ain’t got much. Poor little man, they really done him over, so I heard. Up the hospital now, he is.’

‘The grocery was only a front. He was a money lender, and a fence. The thieves knew where his stuff was kept.’

‘Oh, a money lender.’ Alma had had many a brush with them in the past. ‘Still, they didn’t ought to have hurt him like that. He’s an old man.’

Then she dismissed the subject from her head and started in on things closer to home.

‘I don’t see much of you these days, Harry. You’re always out and about. Either you’re working or you’re up to something with your mates.’