Trinidad Street (33 page)

‘It don’t take that long to pack the stall up. They’ll be in that storeroom of his. He’s made it nice and comfortable there, I’ll be bound, nice and cosy, all private. Just the two of them together, having a bit of fun . . .’

It all fitted: the odd remarks people made, the looks, most of all the way Ellen refused to give that job up. If she had really loved him, she would have done what he asked, found herself something else, something where she wasn’t working side by side with Gerry all day long. But she hadn’t. All the time she had insisted that she kept it on, so that she could be with Gerry.

Siobhan was leaning against him now, her thigh against his. She shifted one hand so that it was resting on his leg, her thumb moving slowly, sensuously.

‘Just the two of them together,’ she repeated, ‘doing what they been looking forward to all day long.’

All that time he had controlled himself, not gone all the way, because he respected Ellen, because she was worth waiting for, because with her it had to be right. And all that time she had been knocking off with Gerry. The pain and anger possessed him and clouded his judgement.

He wanted to strike out, to hurt as he had been hurt, to destroy, but through that need came another, growing ever more urgent. Siobhan was touching him, her sure hands teasing, rousing, her voice close to his ear, husky and low.

‘Forget her, Harry. You don’t need her any more. I’m here, I can give you what you want.’

He could feel the heat of her, smell the animal muskiness. He looked at her properly for the first time. All that little-girl innocence that she put on was gone. The eyes that looked back at him were knowing, the lips parted in invitation. As he took it in, she sat back on her heels, still holding his gaze, and began to undo the buttons of her blouse one by one. Slowly the soft pink flesh was revealed, the fold of her camisole over the lush curve of her breasts. Harry’s fingers were drawn irresistibly towards her, and as they touched her warm skin he was set on an inevitable path. Her head arched back, she purred with pleasure as he explored her body and eased off the blouse. With one impatient
movement, she pulled the camisole over her head and flung it to the floor, then launched into his arms, her lips meeting his in a passionate kiss.

‘You know we were meant, we were always meant,’ she gasped between shuddering breaths. ‘You and me, we’ll be good. You know you’ve always wanted me.’

Part of him always had. The other part hated her for shattering his world.

‘Yeah, and you’ve always wanted me.’

They rolled over and over, each seeking mastery, each trying to lead, to take possession of the other. Shedding clothes, they kissed and touched and explored, tongues and lips and hands moving, sweat and breath mingling in a desperate attempt to gain control by pleasure. But Harry had the black anger and pain on his side, and he held her at last beneath him, teasing and retreating, until she was moaning and writhing in an agony of unfulfilled expectation. He pulled back, panting, and studied her as she lay there spread out. Deliberately, he ran the tips of his fingers over her, circling her belly, her thighs, approaching but never quite touching the centre of pleasure. She cried out, her hands pulling him towards her with the strength of desperation, her body arching to meet his.

‘Please, please, now!’

‘You want me?’ His lips stretched in a mirthless smile.

‘Yes, yes.’

Her fingers were digging into his buttocks, trying to force him into her.

‘Now, please, now –’

He waited a few seconds longer, then gave her what she wanted.

ELLEN GOT OFF
the tram in the West Ferry Road and walked wearily towards home. It had been a long day and she was even more tired than usual, despite the fact that Gerry had sent her off early.

‘I’ll finish off here,’ he said, as she tripped carrying a box to the cart. ‘You look all in. Why don’t you get off home?’

She smiled in relief. ‘Thanks, Gerry. You’re the best gov’nor in the street.’

‘I know,’ he said gruffly, not looking at her. ‘Go on before I change my mind. I’ll clear up.’

She did not see him stand and stare after her as she walked away.

As she turned the corner into Trinidad Street her eyes automatically sought Harry’s house. They would be going out tonight, as usual. Sometimes she worried about how things were going. She knew he loved her, and she loved him passionately, they were happy in each other’s company and had grown ever closer over the last two years; but he had never given even a hint of anything further. People had been teasing her for some time, asking when she was going to marry him and what she was waiting for, until she was beginning to wonder if he really was serious about her, or whether she was only a rather longer-standing girlfriend than usual.

People called out to her as she passed.

‘’Evening, Mrs Croft, ’lo Elsie,’ she answered absently.

Their curious glances were lost on her, the significant looks and the elbowings. It was Granny Hobbs who stopped her.

‘Seeing your young man this evening, are you?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. When I’ve had my tea.’

‘Think maybe you ought to look in on him before then, girl.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ellen frowned, not understanding.

Old Mr Bright sidled up. ‘You go on home, Ellen. Don’t listen to nothing she says.’

Granny Hobbs rounded on him. ‘Shut your trap, you silly old fool. The girl’s got a right to know what’s going on.’

‘What’s going on? What do you mean?’ Ellen looked from one face to the other.

‘Best go and find out.’ Granny Hobbs folded her skinny arms across her chest and gave a meaningful nod.

The hairs on the back of Ellen’s neck prickled. She looked wildly up and down the street. Everyone seemed to be staring her way. Her mother was at the door, looking out for her. Over at the Turners’ the door was shut and the windows blank. No clue there.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ she cried. ‘Tell me!’

‘You ought to go and look for yourself, girl. Go along to the Masons’ old place. See who’s there and who they’re with,’ Granny Hobbs advised.

She set off at the run, her heart thudding in her chest.

‘Ellen!’ Her mother tried to stop her, catching at her arm, but she brushed her off. Her legs felt like lead and there was a terrible pain in her heart. Going in at the door of number twenty-four, her feet rang loud in the empty spaces. Nobody was in the parlour, nobody was in the kitchen, but above the pounding of blood in her ears came the sound of rhythmic movement from up the stairs. She climbed up, each step a mountain, the noise of gasping breath and animal moans getting ever louder as she drew near. She pushed at the bedroom door and stood stock-still. There on the floor amongst a scatter of discarded clothing, two people were locked in passion. Siobhan and –

‘Harry!’

She thought she screamed his name, but no sound came out. She stood frozen with horror, watching as their excitement mounted ever higher and burst at last in a climax of mutual ecstasy.

Their release unleashed her fury.

‘You traitor, you bastard, you whore!’

Beside herself, she picked up his abandoned boots and hurled them at the half-naked, slippery bodies. They both started and looked at her, bemused, satiated. Then Siobhan’s lips parted in a smile of deep satisfaction, while shock slowly spread across Harry’s face.

‘Ellen!’

‘Yeah, Ellen. Ellen, the girl you was going out with, remember? The girl you said you loved. Loved! Liar! How could you? How
could
you?’

She caught hold of the heavy leather belt lying by her feet and swung it wildly, bringing the buckle down first on his back, then on Siobhan’s arm. Red weals appeared, giving her a sense of triumph. She flicked the belt back again, ready to inflict another blow. Siobhan screamed,
covering her face. Harry half rose and snatched it from her.

‘Ellen, stop it.’

‘I shan’t, I shan’t,’ she yelled.

Cheated of her weapon, she took to kicking them, hitching up her skirt and lashing out with her heavy working boots.

‘I hate you, I’ll hate you both for ever!’

Harry grasped first one then the other ankle, holding her with an iron grip so that she was quite unable to move.

‘Let me go!’ she screamed at him, pounding at his naked back with her fists. ‘Let me go!’

Then, quite suddenly, her voice broke and tears ran uncontrollably down her face. Harry released her.

Choking with rage and unbearable pain, she turned and ran down the stairs and out into the street.

It was the talk of the street for weeks. Somehow, Ellen kept her head high and ignored the looks and the sudden silences. Not that the neighbours were against her. Far from it. She was the injured party and had all their sympathy, but sympathy is close to pity and that she could not bear. There was respect, too, for the way she had laid into the guilty couple.

‘You didn’t half give it ’em, girl. Good for you,’ Granny Hobbs commented.

There was nothing like a fight for entertainment. Of course, it would have been better if it had spilled out on to the street, where everyone could have had a look.

There was a certain amount of disapproval of Harry’s part in the affair. He and Ellen had been going out for a long time and it had been expected that they would get married. But it was tempered with acceptance. After all, they were not actually engaged, and men were men.

The full weight of moral outrage was reserved for Siobhan. Going into empty houses with other people’s young men was just not right. Siobhan kept a cool silence and took to staying away from home as much as possible. It was not so much the street, though that was bad enough, it was her aunt’s attitude that kept her away. After the shame of Theresa’s fall from grace, Clodagh could not stand the prospect of another of her flock going to the bad. Life at number twelve was one long lecture for Siobhan, who merely said ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and gave no sign of attending properly to a word said, much to Clodagh’s fury and frustration.

All three of them kept the secret of what had actually happened that day. As far as the street knew, Siobhan and Harry were caught kissing. That was quite enough to account for a major row between Harry and Ellen. For their own different but urgent reasons, none of them wanted the truth to be known. Things were bad enough as it was.

Harry did try to explain to Ellen, but she was not willing to listen. The attempt at a reconciliation blew up into another row, after which they refused to speak to each other.

‘You’re being stupid and pig-headed,’ Martha told her daughter. ‘You got to make allowances. One slip! You don’t throw a man over for one slip. Not a good man like Harry Turner. It’s not as if you was even going to get married. Now next time you see him, you just unbend a bit. At least look at him. Do something. You do want him back, don’t you?’

‘What, and wonder whether he’s going to run to her whenever I’m not there?’

Tears that she managed to hold in check in public spilled over. Ellen broke away and fled upstairs.

Martha sighed. It was the same every time she tried to talk to the girl. She knew her daughter was desperately unhappy and still loved Harry, but she could not break through that stubbornness. She did not know what to do for the best. Other women along the street assured her complacently that it would all come out in the wash, but Martha was not so sure. When Ellen made her mind up, she was the very devil to shift.

The one person who never said a word about it all was Gerry. Up at the market, Ellen could escape from the constant speculation, make an attempt at being as cheerful as usual for the sake of trade and pretend to the outside world that everything was all right. Gerry talked to her about his deals, about characters at the market, about his plans for the future. Neither Harry nor Siobhan was ever mentioned. It was as if they did not exist. It was balm to Ellen’s battered heart, giving her a chance to rest and recuperate. They took to going for a drink after packing up, so that by the time Ellen got home in the evening she ate a very late tea and went straight to bed. The fact that Gerry relied on her gave her something to get up for when morning dragged round again.

It was six weeks or so after the fateful day that Siobhan stopped Harry in the street.

‘I got to talk to you,’ she told him.

‘I don’t think there’s anything to talk about,’ he said, making to pass on.

But she caught him by the sleeve. There was none of the usual challenge in her face today, just a deadly earnestness.

‘Oh but there is, and ’tis very important,’ she insisted. ‘Do you want me to spill it here in the street or shall we go somewhere quiet?’

Something in her voice stopped him from brushing her off.

‘All right, all right. I’ll meet you down by the river in half an hour. By Tyson’s quay.’

He deliberately arrived late, expecting her to do the same since she was so adept at playing games, but found to his surprise that she was there before him.

It was a dull autumn day with a hint of drizzle in the air, the sort of day that reduced all colours to shades of grey – light grey sky, steel-grey water, dark grey buildings, brown-grey mud. She stood on the weed-infested piece of ground beside the quay, with the panorama of the river behind her – a bright figure in green and yellow against the monochrome background.

Harry stopped short, looking at her. Whatever it was she was up to, he decided he was not playing. But even as he thought it, he remembered that that was what he had thought last time.

‘Well?’ he said.

She stood for a moment, holding herself aloof.

‘There’s no need to take that tone with me,’ she told him. ‘You’re responsible for this just as much as I am.’

‘Responsible for what?’ he asked, while half a dozen possibilities flashed through his mind.

‘For our baby.’

For several seconds, he stared at her. It had been said in a such a matter-of-fact way that it did not fully sink in.

‘Our
what
?’

‘Our baby. Yours and mine.’

‘But . . .’ He snatched at the obvious way out: ‘Are you sure?’