Trinidad Street (31 page)

‘That Doll Sanders is no better than a prostitute. I don’t know why she don’t go on the streets and have done with it. God, but I hate sharing with the likes of her. These theatre managers are so stingy. They only give you your own room if you’re top of the bill.’

Will opened his mouth to say something soothing, but she forestalled him.

‘And you’re late. I’m on in ten minutes. What took you so long?’

‘I’m sorry –’ Will began.

The callboy squeezed between them and banged on the men’s dressing-room door. ‘Mr Rivers! Five minutes, Mr Rivers!’

Siobhan sniffed. ‘This place is a shambles, so it is. I’m not playing here again. I told Mr Spruce that, straight.’

‘You deserve better,’ Will said.

‘Don’t I know it! Mr Spruce, he’s been promising me better billing and classier places for months, years, but nothing ever comes of it. I’m sick of him; he’s all talk, that one.’

‘Perhaps you ought –’ Will began.

‘And you’re not much better. Always late. Here.’ She shoved a crumpled pass into his hand. ‘Don’t just stand there looking stupid, go and get a standing place out front.’

She whisked back into the dressing-room, leaving him staring at the door. Putting it down to stage nerves, Will did as he was told. As he stumbled his way round the maze of ill-lit corridors, he could hear the callboy shouting for Mr Rivers to go on stage and five minutes for Miss O’Donaghue. Anxious not to be too late to see her perform, he ran back and forth, getting more hot and desperate by the minute. At last he opened the right door, found himself in the tawdry splendour of the front-of-house and slipped into the auditorium just as the five-piece band struck up her introductory bars.

And there she was, stepping into the spotlight, fresh and innocent as sweet sixteen in her frilly dress. She had two numbers on the go now, ‘My Whistling Postie’ and ‘The Lights of Old London’, both lilting melodies with sentimental words, suited to her style. This time she sang the postman one, getting the audience to whistle an accompaniment to the choruses. To Will’s ears it was faultless. He could not understand why it did not stop the show. But inexorably the curtain came down and the next artiste was introduced. The programme ran on smoothly towards the big name at the top of the bill.

Remembering his duties for the evening, Will went back to wait for Siobhan in the corridor. She emerged, still made up, with a light cloak over her costume and thrust a huge hatbox and a valise at Will.

‘Come on,’ she said, pushing past him and hurrying up the corridor.

Obediently, Will followed. They climbed into a waiting cab and Siobhan gave the name of the next theatre. In the stuffy darkness, Will felt for her hand. At first she snatched it away, but after some pleading on his part, she consented to let him hold it. He praised her performance extravagantly, but it did nothing to improve her temper.

Another venue, another set of dusty corridors and crowded dressing rooms. If anything, it was worse than the last place. The crowd was much rowdier and the seats were nothing but wooden benches. Will looked with distaste at the rows of whistling, catcalling men and their loud women. He could not see them appreciating Siobhan’s charms. But she was further up the bill here, only five items from the top. After a couple of risqué comics, she was like a breath of fresh air. They were restive during the first half of the song, but after a while the sentiment started to come home to them, and they listened like lambs.

‘You were wonderful, wonderful,’ Will told her as she came out once more, this time dressed in her ordinary clothes.

‘This is the last time I play here,’ she said. ‘This place is hardly better than a penny-gaff. I’m worth more than this.’

Carrying the costume, Will was drawn along in her wake. They ended up at a chophouse. Will blenched at the prices on the menu chalked on the wall. A meal here was going to cost a week’s wages. But there was no way of backing out now, unless he wanted to lose Siobhan altogether. He tried to push the thought of his four hungry children to the back of his mind, and chose the cheapest dish. Then he listened with a sinking feeling of doom as Siobhan ordered lavishly.

‘Performing always makes me ravenous,’ she said, tucking into a loaded plate, then taking a long drink of the bottle of wine she had ordered.

Will nodded dumbly. His appetite had deserted him.

She threw him a saucy look. ‘And not just for food and drink,’ she said.

Will swallowed. She was so unexpected. He never knew what she was going to say next.

‘That’s good,’ he responded, a little belatedly. ‘I’m much more hungry for that than for this.’ He nodded at the food in front of him.

Then the eternal difficulty reared its head. ‘There anywhere we can go? I don’t know this part of town.’

‘We can get back in that dump. Doorkeeper’ll let you in if you slip him a bob. We can use the star dressing room.’

A shilling took Will two hours’ hard labour to earn, but the prospect
of having her in the privacy of a locked room was worth five times as much.

‘Just the job,’ he said.

Siobhan talked away between mouthfuls, telling him about fellow artistes, bad audiences, conditions backstage, her opinion of Sidney Spruce. It was all damning, but as the food and drink restored her humour, it changed from a string of complaints into barbed jokes against all concerned. The underlying theme was that she, Miss Siobhan O’Donaghue, was ill-used. Nobody appreciated her talent. She was not getting the pay, conditions, venues or billing that she deserved, and it was everybody’s fault but her own.

Will could only nod and agree, watching her full lips and the rise and fall of her breasts as she spoke, and thinking of her soft round body, soon to be his. He sent silent thanks that Pat and Declan were no longer on constant guard over their cousin. Now that they were both married, their wives did not take kindly to their going out night after night to play chaperon, and their mother was finding it difficult to get menfolk enough to escort her, even within their big family.

‘You ought to be top of the bill at the Empire,’ he told her, saying no more than what he believed to be the truth.

‘Of course I should,’ she said. ‘I know that, you know that, but does Mr Wonderful Sidney Spruce tell them that? No, he does not.’ She poured out the last of the wine and drained it, banging her empty glass down on the table.

Will leant across and took her hands. ‘Let’s go back to the theatre, eh?’ he said.

She gave him a long, considering look, pulled her hands away and sat back in her chair.

‘That depends,’ she said.

Will’s hopes plummeted. It was always the same with Siobhan; nothing was ever straightforward. There was always some catch, some bargaining point.

‘Depends on what?’ he asked.

She did not answer right away. ‘My glass is empty,’ she said pointedly, twirling it between her fingers.

For a while he thought she was just delaying things and that another drink or two was all she was waiting for. He watched her drinking the wine, remembering what she looked like partly dressed, what her soft hot body felt like beneath and around him. Under the table, he rubbed his leg against hers, sending shafts of excitement through his nerves. But she drew sharply back.

‘Stop that!’ she hissed.

He sighed, frustrated and perplexed. He would never understand the workings of her mind.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘You’ve been up, that’s the trouble.’

For a moment he just stared at her.

‘What?’

‘What?’ she mimicked viciously. ‘Going back to the theatre’s all very well, but one thing leads to another, don’t it? If you want to do it this time, then it’s got to be permanent. You got to face up to your responsibilities.’

He stopped on the verge of saying ‘What?’ again. The gist of what she meant was beginning to sink in, and sending messages of fear around his body.

‘Just what are you saying?’ he asked slowly.

She did not answer, but just sat there waiting for the penny to drop. Her hand gripped the table top, white-knuckled, and the smile that glittered in her face had not a trace of humour in it.

‘You’re – you’re having a baby.’

‘No. I’m having your baby.’

He could not think straight. Images jostled in his mind – Siobhan on stage, Siobhan arm in arm with one of the local boys, Siobhan beneath him, Harry Turner coming at him with fists raised, Lily pink and scrubbed and ready for bed, Maisie’s swollen pregnant belly, Mrs O’Donaghue . . .

‘You’re joking,’ he said, to gain time.

She shook her head very slightly, holding him with her eyes.

‘You’re a lucky man, Will Johnson. You got me tied down. Lot of men have wanted to do that. Lot of men would like to keep me to themselves, but you gone and done it.’

There was resentment in her voice. She had not wanted it this way.

He knew what she said was true. He had had to wait his turn so many times. And now he was being offered what he had always wanted. And yet – it was not quite what he had imagined. When he fantasized about owning Siobhan, it was not as part of a family. He had a family already. Siobhan did not fit into the part of housewife and mother. That was Maisie’s role. Siobhan was the bright, teasing, carefree one, up in the spotlight, forever just out of reach. He wanted her to stay like that, so that other men would see her there and envy him when she walked out on his arm.

He recalled Maisie when she was in the same position. Half proud,
half scared, she had told him she was in the club, and he had known that there was no alternative. He had to marry her. All the street knew they were going out together. If he backed down, his mother and her mother and all the neighbours would have something to say about it. There was no getting away with it.

‘But what about your family, the street?’ he blurted out. ‘We couldn’t go there. There’s Maisie and the kids – they’d never . . .’

They would be outcasts.

She cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘The devil take my family, and the street,’ she said. ‘Use your head, do! We don’t go back there. We get a room for tonight, then we find ourselves lodgings. Easy. You find yourself a job, we get a place. Nobody need ever know.’

‘But . . .’

It took his breath away. To just walk out on everything – Maisie, the kids, his job, his family, the street, all the people he knew. It was wiping away his life, his personality. It was one thing to leave them behind for an evening. The sense of freedom had been as good as the effect of two pints on an empty stomach. But to leave them for ever was unthinkable. Without the familiar references, he hardly knew who he was.

‘I can’t,’ he said.

Siobhan did not cry, or rail, or swear. Desperation did not work on her that way. Instead, her full lips parted, showing the tip of her pink tongue. Under the table, her foot travelled slowly, sensuously up his leg until it rested in his crotch just long enough to rouse him. Then it went down the other leg, lingered on his foot, and was gone, leaving him in a fever of desire.

‘Coward,’ she said.

He wanted her, right now. He wanted to say ‘Let’s go’, and take her to a rooming house and make love to her all night long on a proper bed, and to hell with the consequences. But to do so would be to throw away everything he knew. She was right, he was a coward.

‘I –’ he began, wavering.

He would never see little Lily again. She would never toddle up to him with her arms raised to be picked up. She would never cling round his legs, giggling. Tommy and Peter and Albert would have no dad to show them how to shoot goals or take them for their first drink.

‘I can’t. I can’t leave them all in the lurch.’

Siobhan went white. Fear, anger and an edge of panic pinched her face, making it look old and ravaged. She was not used to being rejected. Then she recovered herself. She took a deep breath through her nose, held it, then shrugged and stood up.

‘You’ll regret it,’ she said, and walked out without a backward glance.

Will was left staring after her. He wanted to jump up and run to stop her, but his legs were leaden. He could not. He could not just leave everything, even for her. The waiter appeared with the massive bill. Will searched through his pockets and paid it with every last penny. Somehow, he got out on to the street. He looked up and down, expecting, hoping, to see her small, determined figure lugging her clothes, but there was nothing. It was as if the pavement had swallowed her up. Without making a conscious decision, he set off for the theatre, walking faster and faster until he broke into a run. He pounded on the door but it was all locked up. Not even the stage doorkeeper she had said they could bribe was there. It was then that he finally realized he had lost her. He had made his choice and he was going to have to stick with it.
You’ll regret it.
Her words pounded over and over in his head. And as he started on the long walk home, he already did.

Harry walked briskly along Chrisp Street. It was Saturday evening and the crowds in the market were rapidly thinning. Some of the traders were already packing up for the day. Around the fresh-food stalls hopeful knots of the very poor were gathered, waiting to pick up the last of the bruised fruit or off-colour meat at bargain prices. Harry glanced at them and looked away, proud that his mother no longer had to hang around on the chance of getting a bit of food that nobody else wanted. At least his family ate properly now. He shook off the other problems. It was Saturday, he had been paid and he was on his way to meet Ellen. It was time for enjoyment, not worries.

It was going to be a surprise. He had got off earlier than expected and rather than wait for her to come home, he had decided to come up here and take her out straight from work. It would give them that much longer together. The thought of the evening ahead put a spring into his step, despite the gruelling week he had spent at work. Six twelve-hour days on the trot were worth it when there was a night out with Ellen to look forward to. At a flower stall he paused, on the point of buying her a bunch of roses. But on closer inspection the blooms were wilted.