Trinidad Street (28 page)

‘’Evening, darling. All alone?’ a passing young man called.

Theresa put her nose in the air and pointedly ignored him. The man laughed and went on.

A group of girls from the church club went by. Theresa flattened herself against the window, praying that they would not see her. But God was not listening to her today. He did not consent to be party to deceit.

‘Oh, look, it’s Treece. Wotcher, Treece! What you doing here?’

They all clustered round, some half-dozen of them.

‘She’s waiting for someone. Who’re you waiting for, Theresa?’

‘She’s waiting for her fella, that’s what. Who is it, Treece? Is he nice?’

Theresa could not resist that one. ‘Yeah, he’s ever so nice,’ she said.

‘He didn’t ought to get you to meet him here. Why don’t he come and pick you up at home?’

‘Bet her mum don’t like him, that’s why.’

‘Who is he, Theresa? Come on, you can tell us. We won’t let on.’

But Theresa gave nothing away. Whatever they might promise, she could not trust them not to talk, and then she really would be in trouble. Her mum would never let her out again. As it was, she was taking a huge risk. These were the girls she had told her mother she was going out with this evening.

In the end, they got fed up with questioning her and made off, linking arms and talking loudly amongst themselves.

‘Oh well, if she don’t want to talk to us, that’s her funeral.’

‘Let her keep her silly secret. He’s probably horrible, anyway.’

‘Must be to treat her like that. I wouldn’t wait around in the street for any boy, I wouldn’t.’

Theresa glared after them. She touched the heavy gold cross that hung round her neck on its piece of string. Charlie had given her that. It was lovely, really heavy against her chest, an expensive gift, not some cheap bit of rubbish from the market. She brushed aside the memory of the manner in which he had given it to her, pulling it out of his pocket and flinging it down at her with one of his dismissive shrugs.

‘Here, this is the sort of stuff your lot wears, ain’t it? You best look after it. You ain’t getting nothing else.’

It was just his way. He must love her really if he gave her something like that.

Harry Turner and Ellen Johnson drifted by arm in arm. There was no danger of their noticing her, they were too wrapped up in each other. Theresa watched them with envy. It was all right for Ellen, her mother liked Harry. She did not have to make up stories and wait in the street. Some people had all the luck. Still, it was good being able to get at Siobhan with the fact that Ellen had Harry. Siobhan hated it. She could pretend not to care, but Theresa knew she was sick about it. She hugged that thought to herself.

When Charlie finally turned up, the evening was half over.

‘Had a bit of business to do,’ was all he offered in explanation.

Theresa was so pleased just to see him that she did not protest. He was here – that was all that mattered. He was here and he was hers. He had given her an expensive present, so that even Siobhan looked impressed. Siobhan had been jealous of the cross. She did not have anything as nice as that.

Charlie forged up the street with his swift, stiff-legged walk, his hands in his pockets. Theresa had to almost trot to keep up. She threaded an arm through his and tried to slow him down.

‘What’s the hurry?’ she asked. ‘Where’re we going? Somewhere nice?’

‘I need a drink,’ he said. He was all tense and excited about something. Theresa could feel it vibrating in the muscles of his arm, but she knew better than to ask him about it, especially if it had to do with his ‘business’. Charlie never explained anything he did not want to.

They walked in this fashion for some way before turning in at a pub. They had been there several times before. Nobody from their way went in it, since it was practically in South Millwall, but Charlie could
always find some mates hanging around there. Charlie ordered a pint with a whisky chaser, then, as an afterthought, a half of milk stout for Theresa. Theresa stared doubtfully into the thick black liquid. She was none too keen on milk stout. She watched as Charlie downed his pint and threw the chaser after it. He couldn’t half drink, could Charlie. Nobody else in the bar was drinking anything as posh as whisky chasers. She forgot about the stout, fiercely glad just to be with Charlie, proud of the way he looked, with that swagger to him, even proud of the way he neglected her, leaving her alone at a table while he laughed and joked with the other men in the bar. After all, that was how a real man behaved. Later, she would have him all to herself. In the meantime, she wanted to grab people by the shoulder, to tell them that she was with Charlie Billingham, to see the respect in their eyes.

As an hour or so ticked by, she could see the tension drop away from him. He became loud and cheerful. Theresa’s complacency began to fade. At this rate, the evening would be gone and she had hardly had anything of him. She waited for a lull and risked sidling up to him. She pulled at his sleeve.

‘Charlie.’

He whipped round and stared at her as if he had forgotten her existence.

‘Who . . .? Oh, Treece. What you want?’

‘Charlie, we been here an awful long time, and my mum’ll kill me if I’m back late. You know what she’s like.’

Charlie gave a grimace. ‘Old witch.’

But he drained his glass and banged it down on the bar, then put his arm round her, his hand sneaking under her arm and pinching her breast.

‘Or, I got to go now,’ he shouted to his cronies. ‘Me and my girl are going for a walk.’

Theresa blushed scarlet. Half of her was bursting with pride at being identified with him, the other half curled with embarrassment at the loaded suggestiveness of Charlie’s voice, the whistles from the other men.

They emerged into the dampness of the autumn night. A fog was beginning to drift in off the river, wrapping the streets in a shroud of grey.

‘We better go somewhere a bit sheltered,’ Charlie said. ‘Bloody weather. I hate winter. Come on.’

He led the way back towards home along the muffled roads until they came to St Luke’s. Theresa suppressed a surge of guilt. After all, it
was not as if it was a proper church. It was only a Protestant one. They made for the porch, but it was already occupied. Trysting places were few once the summer was over. Cursing under his breath, Charlie dragged her round the churchyard, keeping close under the walls. The first alcove they came to was also taken up with a couple. After stumbling against gravestones, they found a place tucked under one of the buttresses.

‘This’ll do,’ Charlie decided.

He backed her into the corner, leant the weight of his body against her and fastened his mouth on hers. Theresa returned his kiss with desperate eagerness. This was what she had been waiting for. Now she had him to herself. Nobody could distract him now, for she could give him what none of his pals could.

She stood with the rough stones of the wall digging into her back, her legs braced, pretending to enjoy it as he kneaded her breasts and bit her neck, his hips all the while thrusting at her until she could feel his hardness through the layers of her clothes. He struggled with her long skirt and petticoats, his rough fingers demanding against her soft vulnerable flesh, poking and rubbing. His breath was coming in harsh gasps, and she could hear him grunting and cursing with frustration.

‘Sod it,’ he hissed. ‘Why do you have to wear so bloody much? I hate doing it standing up, you can’t get it in proper. Come here.’

Taking her by the wrist he pulled her away from the wall and on to the wet grass. Stumbling, Theresa caught her shin against a gravestone and nearly cried out in pain. It was cold and rank-smelling amongst the close-packed graves, but Theresa knew better than to complain. She lay with the chill dew seeping through her shawl and blouse while Charlie thrust into her, waiting for that moment when he cried out then subsided on her, that moment when he always said he loved her. She moved with him as he had taught her to, her arms clasped about him, her eyes tightly shut, glad that it no longer hurt like it had at first. And then, swiftly, it was over, and he was collapsed on top of her, groaning now with pleasure.

Theresa stroked his head tenderly, every nerve straining to hear him whisper her reward.

Nothing.

Still she waited. His breathing was settling into a slow steady rhythm.

‘Charlie?’ she breathed in his ear. ‘Charlie? Darling? You do love me, don’t you, Charlie? Say you love me.’

The only reply was a low unmistakable snore.

Misery welled up from the core of her being. She did all this for him because she loved him. She would give anything and everything just to keep him, but she had nothing but herself, so she gave him that. All she asked in return was the right to call him hers, and a kind word. She lay and sobbed while he slept and grew soft and slipped out of her.

High above them the clock struck the hour. Eleven. Charlie woke up.

Theresa was gripped with panic.

‘Eleven! Oh no. Eleven! I thought it was only ten. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, my mum’ll kill me. An hour late! She’ll keep me in for a month. What am I going to do?’

‘Oh, shut your row,’ Charlie grumbled.

He got slowly to his feet and started doing up buttons while Theresa frantically sorted out her clothing, all the time gabbling about getting back.

‘Come
on
,’ she squealed, grabbing at his arm.

Charlie shook her off. ‘If you’re in such a hurry, you get going,’ he said. ‘I want to sit here and have a fag.’

Weeping with fear, Theresa hobbled in the direction of the gate. Her petticoats were still all caught up, her blouse half undone, her back soaked to the skin. She blundered into gravestones and twice nearly fell before reaching the road. Once there, she tried to pull herself together. It was dark and foggy, and she could hardly see five yards in front of her face. She took several long, shuddering breaths, did up the buttons and shook out her underwear. She felt very slightly better. She must not get lost. That would be fatal. Which way? Right. She must turn right for the quickest way home. She must remember exactly which street she was in. Still sobbing and whimpering, she put her hand against the wall to steady herself, and trotted into the thick night.

In any other circumstances, she would have been terrified of being knifed, beaten up or worse. But she was so frightened of being late, so taken up with what tale she was going to tell to her mother, that she hardly gave her present safety a thought. The roads seemed to go on for ever. It was like the nightmare where you run and run and get nowhere. From the river she could hear the horns and bells of ships, muffled or weirdly distorted by the fog, so that she could not tell which direction they were coming from.

Just as she had begun to think that she had got lost and was going to be out all night, she saw the bleary glow of light from a corner pub. Like a ship in a storm, she headed towards it. The Rum Puncheon – she
had reached Trinidad Street. Relief hit her in the knees, so that her legs nearly crumpled under her.

She did not turn into the street straight away, for now she had to come out with an explanation, and nothing she had thought of so far was going to get past her mother’s critical ears. The whole sorry evening flashed before her eyes: the long wait in the shop doorway, the jeers of her girlfriends, sitting in the pub, the performance in the churchyard . . . her girlfriends. An inkling of a story came to her. A row – they had had a row. They had wanted to go in this pub but she had not and they had argued about it and she had run away and got lost in the fog. It was pretty feeble, but it would have to do. She had to say something. Her heart thudding in her chest, she ran down the street and in at her own door.

‘And where do you think you’ve been, madam?’

Arms akimbo, her mother was waiting for her. Even in her nightgown with her hair in a plait, she was enough to make strong men quake, small and skinny as she was. She looked like an avenging angel.

‘I – I – I’m sorry, Mam, I got lost. It’s the fog. You should see it. Mam, it’s a real pea-souper. I was so frightened, I couldn’t see where I was and then I must’ve turned the wrong way, and I was all alone ’cos we had this row . . .’ She gabbled on, tears running down her face, making very little sense.

Unimpressed, Clodagh reached out and turned her round, inspecting her back.

‘What you done to yourself? You’re wet through, and muddy.’ She grasped Theresa by the forearms and peered into her face. ‘What you been up to? You don’t get wet like that walking in the fog.’

Guilt sent a deep blush all over her face. Theresa took refuge in tears. Her mother shook her until her head felt loose on her shoulders.

‘That’s enough of that! I want the truth out of you. And just you remember the Blessed Virgin is listening to every word you say.’

‘There – there – there was this man. In the fog.’ Out of nowhere, a feasible story came to her. ‘Oh, Mam, it was horrible. He jumped out at me and I fought him, but I tripped and I fell and he had me on my back and there was this puddle, but I managed to get away and I ran and – oh Mam, I was so glad to get home. I never been so frightened in my life.’

She worked her way into fresh tears, but this time her mother’s arms went round her and she was held to her thin bosom and rocked and soothed and stroked like a baby.

‘There, there. ’tis all right now, so it is. You’re safe home with your own mam.’

Smothering the guilt with relief, she let herself be comforted until the weeping was just an occasional sob.

‘Now then.’ Her mother held her back a little and looked her in the eye. ‘Tell me now, did he hurt you at all? Did he touch you?’

Theresa shook her head emphatically. ‘No, no, he never. I got away.’

Clodagh heaved a great sigh. ‘All the saints be thanked. Now away up to bed with you and I’ll bring you some hot milk.’

And so she got away with it. Or so she thought.

WITHIN A FORTNIGHT,
merely being back an hour late and wet through seemed almost desirable to Theresa, in contrast to the problems that now confronted her.