Trinidad Street (30 page)

‘If you want to talk, you’ll have to do it here,’ Charlie said stubbornly.

‘I can’t.’

‘All right. Keep it to y’self. I’m going to have a wash. Any warm water, Mum?’

‘In the kettle,’ Alma said automatically, a slow understanding growing in her mind. Her eyes were on Theresa; they flicked down from her face to her body, assessing. So that was it. Who would have thought it, a cold little madam like her? Without looking at her son, she said, ‘I think you better sit down and listen, Charlie. We don’t want no slander going on behind our backs, do we?’

‘What?’

Uncomprehending, but realizing that something was up, Charlie also looked at Theresa. The girl was visibly wilting.

‘Out with it, then,’ Alma said.

Theresa’s eyes sought Charlie’s, pleading. Alma was glad to see that he did not give way.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘I – I –’ She struggled to speak, but only disjointed phrases came out. ‘Last month – you know – you remember – and now it’s – I – six weeks and I never . . .’

She had guessed right. She turned to her son. ‘This right, what she’s saying?’

‘What?’

She gave a sigh of exasperation. Any girl could put upon him.

‘It’s a good thing you got me here to look after your interests. She’s trying to pin a baby on you, can’t you see that? I never knew you and her had anything to do with each other. You never told me. Nobody in the street told me, neither.’

Charlie looked dumbfounded, as well he might. It was obvious that it was the first he had heard of it.

‘
What
? No, never. Never had nothing to do with her. Catholic, ain’t
she? Can you see old Ma O’Donaghue letting her out with me? Not likely.’

Alma nodded. That was true enough, though Clodagh O’Donaghue ought to be glad to have her Charlie taking an interest in one of her girls. A good boy, was her Charlie.

‘Just what I thought.’ She looked at Theresa, jabbing an angry finger at her. ‘You better take your wicked lying tongue somewhere else, you little slut. You can’t come in here bold as brass and start saying things like that.’

The girl just sat there. She did not seem to be listening. She was staring at Charlie as if the world was about to end.

She found her voice at last. ‘How
can
you?’ she cried, cutting through Alma’s tirade.

She flew at Charlie, grabbing handfuls of crumpled shirt and pulling him close so that she could shout in his face. ‘How
can
you say that? You know I’m not lying. You know it’s true. It’s yours, yours! What am I going to do? What are you going to do? You got to do something, you got to, you got to . . .!’

Alma dragged her off. The arms used to scrubbing ships and pulling pints were even stronger than Theresa’s despairing rage. There was a ripping sound as Charlie’s shirt gave way. Theresa was left with nothing but two handfuls of cotton fabric.

‘That’s enough. If my boy says it’s not his, it’s not his. Now out. I’m not having sluts in my house. Out!’

She pushed the sobbing girl out into the street and slammed the door shut behind her.

‘Well,’ she said, dusting her hands. ‘There’s a how-de-do. What on earth made her pick on you? You don’t hardly see each other in the street, let alone have anything else between you.’

Charlie shrugged. ‘Dunno. Think she’s mad.’

‘Clodagh O’Donaghue’s going to be mad when she finds out. No wonder the girl was desperate. I wonder who the father is?’

Charlie shrugged again. ‘Could be anyone.’

‘Well, it’s no one she can name, that’s for sure, or she wouldn’t have been in here accusing you. Maybe she’s taken up with a married man. Though I can’t recall ever seeing Theresa with anyone, that’s the funny thing . . .’

The speculation quite cheered her up. By midday she was ready to step out down the street and have a chat to the other women.

It was all over the street by the end of the week. Some helpful soul told
Clodagh O’Donaghue, or rather asked her if it were true, pretending not to believe such a tale. Clodagh denied it and went to confront her daughter.

It was a Thursday evening. The children were out playing in the street, the other working members of the family were not yet home and Siobhan had been sent up to the shop to buy a ha’porth of jam. For once, the house was quiet. There was no hoping someone would interrupt them.

Theresa hung her head. It was no use denying it.

‘That cow Mrs Billingham. She had no right going telling everyone.’

‘Mrs Billingham? What’s Alma Billingham got to do with it? How come she knows before me, your own mother?’

Theresa had no fight left in her. ‘Because I went to see Charlie,’ she admitted dully.

How she wished now that she hadn’t. After all, what good would it have done? She couldn’t marry him. He was a Protestant. No priest would marry her to a Protestant. If only she had stopped to think, she might have kept the dreadful secret for another two or three months.

‘
Charlie
? Why . . .? On no – Mary, mother of God help me. You’re not telling me Charlie Billingham is . . .?’ Clodagh gasped.

Theresa knew just what was going on in her mind. A baby conceived before the wedding was a sin, but a forgivable one, just so long as the marriage was hurried up a bit. People might count the months on their fingers and make sly remarks, but it happened all the time and would be forgotten after a while. If she had got herself into trouble with a Catholic boy, it could have been patched up. The O’Donaghues would have gone in force to see his family and a match would have been made of it.

But marrying a Protestant in one of their churches was another thing altogether. It did not count as a marriage at all in the eyes of the Catholic Church. It was living in sin. Having the baby with no visible father around was just as bad. Either way the situation was total disgrace, a disaster. The whole family was involved in it.

Her mother sat down hard. Her face was white, the muscles sagging with shock.

‘I don’t believe it. That a child of mine – that you of all girls – should bring shame like this on all of us . . .’

Tears rolled down Theresa’s cheeks. She flung herself on to her knees and threw her arms round her mother’s legs.

‘Oh, Mam, Mam, forgive me. I didn’t mean to, he made me.’

But she found herself pushed away.

‘You wicked girl! I brought you up right, to respect the Church and its holy laws. You know what’s right and wrong. There’s no excuse. You’ve brought ruin on us all. How could you do this to us? How could you?’

Theresa huddled on the floor, abject. Beneath her shins the worn oilcloth felt hard and cold as she waited for the final blow to fall.

‘And after I’ve worked my fingers to the bone all these years to see you don’t go hungry and you got a clean decent home to live in and neat mended clothes on your back. You had everything we could give you, and this is how you repay us. Think of what this means to your sisters – did you not stop for a moment and consider them? What respectable young man’s going to look at them if they’ve got a whore in the family? And your brothers, and your father and me, how can we ever hold up our heads again? The shame of it!’

Theresa had known all along what the outcome would be. She had seen it happen to two other girls in the Catholic community these last couple of years. For her mother to stand by her would be the same as condoning her behaviour. The whole family would be tainted. There was only one thing that could happen. Through the pounding in her ears she heard heavy footsteps going upstairs and moving about in the back bedroom. All too soon there was the whisk of a draught as the parlour door opened and a thud as a bundle was thrown down beside her.

‘There’s your things.’ Her mother’s voice was hard as flint, cold as the winter depths of the Thames, devoid of emotion after the rage and the shock.

Theresa could not move. ‘Please, Mam. Don’t do this to me.’ She looked up at her mother, desperation in her eyes, but the face that looked back at her was inexorable. She was the rotten limb. She had to be cut off to save the whole body of the family.

Her mother turned away, went to the mantelpiece and tipped the contents of the jar there into her hand. There was a clink of hard-earned coins.

‘Take this.’ She thrust the small hoard into the pitifully tiny bundle of possessions, avoiding Theresa’s eyes. ‘I’ll not send you out penniless into the world, for all you’ve brought upon us. Now go, before the men get back.’

And so Theresa stood, stiff at the knees, a blessed sense of unreality wrapping her overburdened emotions. This was not happening to her. She took her jacket off the peg as if it were just a short trip up the road she was set upon, and struggled into it. Her fingers refused to do up the
buttons. She picked up the bundle, moved to the door, opened it. She looked back as she stood in the opening, her hand on the latch. Her mother was standing still in the middle of the room, staring at her with an unfathomable depth of grief on her lined face. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing more that could be said.

She walked slowly up the street, looking neither right nor left. She was a ghost now. As far as her family was concerned, she was dead. She did not exist.

At the corner she passed Siobhan carrying a dish of lurid red jam for tea, the tea that she would not be there to share. Siobhan’s quick eyes flicked over her, taking in the bundle.

‘And where might you be off to?’ she asked.

Theresa stared back at her. She seemed a long way off, detached.

‘I’m going off to be with my young man,’ she said, and the fantasy flowed easily. ‘He’s got a house in West Ham, a place of his own. He says he’s tired of hiding and waiting, he can’t live without me any longer. So I’m going to join him. I don’t care what Mam says. I want to be rich and I want to be happy, so I’m going. Goodbye.’

For once, Siobhan was silenced.

Theresa walked on, her head held a little higher. She had got one over on Siobhan at last.

‘I’M GOING OUT,’
Will called.

Maisie came in from the yard with her arms full of washing off the line.

‘Oh.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you? Where you going, then?’

He could not quite meet her eyes. She had large eyes, soulful – her best feature. When she was flushed, as she was now from battling with the washing, she almost regained the prettiness that had originally attracted him.

‘Just out with the boys,’ he lied.

The two youngest children, Albert and little Lily, came toddling up to him, pink and clean from their pre-bedtime scrub. Albert hung on to his leg and Lily held her arms up to be picked up. Will bent down and caught her chubby little body between his rough hands. She squealed with pleasure as he swung her high in the air, almost touching the ceiling. He had a soft spot for Lily. She was an appealing little thing, with round face, round eyes, soft baby curls. He kissed her cheek.

‘Say goodnight to your dad, then.’

‘Ni-night,’ she responded obediently.

Albert tugged at his trouser leg. ‘Me! Me!’

Will set Lily down and tousled Albert’s hair. ‘Goodnight, Titch.’

The little boy hit him. ‘Not Titch. Albert!’

Will cuffed him lightly round the ear. ‘It’s Titch until you learn some manners. Say goodnight proper.’

‘Go’night,’ Albert muttered.

‘Goodnight, Albert. Now go to bed.’

The two trotted off up the stairs. Maisie dumped the washing on the kitchen table and pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead.

‘Will – send the others in as you go, will you? They’ll mind what you say.’

Glad to be let off so lightly, Will agreed.

The two older boys were out playing with the street gang. Will bellowed at them and told them to go in for bed, dusting their backsides for them when they protested.

‘And I don’t want to hear you been cheeking your mum, neither,’ he warned.

Duty done, he set off, but the young voices, the family responsibilities, clung to him.

Once over the bridge and off the Island the guilt began to fall from him. He was away from home. What you did away from home didn’t matter. It was quite a long trip to the theatre in Islington. Changing from one crowded bus to another, the sense of freedom grew. He was on new ground. Acres of brick, rows and rows of anonymous streets separated him from the inquisitive eyes of workmates and neighbours. Here, nobody knew him, nobody cared where he was going or who he was with. He felt young and carefree again. By the time he reached the stage door, there was a swagger in his step.

‘Mr Will Johnson,’ he told the doorkeeper with careless confidence. ‘Miss O’Donaghue is expecting me.’

The glory of being able to say that. She had been keeping him at arm’s length for a couple of months now. He had been in agony, wondering if she was ever going to let him meet her, especially now that they had made love.

It had been unlike anything he had experienced before, despite the fact that they had had to listen out for Declan, who was on escort duty that night. Hidden behind a basket of theatrical props in a forgotten corner of a theatre, he had discovered that what he had been doing with Maisie all these years was not the half of it.

He could not bear the thought of never doing that again. His need of her consumed him day and night. And tonight he knew that none of her relations was able to pick her up.

A woman in stage make-up answered his knock on the women’s dressing-room door. The smell of scent, sweat and greasepaint oozed out round her. She looked Will up and down, took a drag of her cigarette, then called over her shoulder for Siobhan.

‘Visitor for you, dearie. Nice bit of muscle on him. Wouldn’t mind him myself if you’re not interested. Only if he’s got money, mind you. I’m not looking at anything without the necessary in his pockets.’

Siobhan appeared, ready for her act, in a dainty pink dress with rows of ruffles round the hem and the low neck and a big picture hat covered with paper flowers.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she snapped as Will reached out for her. ‘You’ll ruin my costume.’

The painted woman laughed and went back inside, winking at Will as she closed the door. Siobhan glared after her.