Trinidad Street (39 page)

It was a great yawning plea for some gesture on her part. Ellen gently parted the baby’s clamping jaws from one breast and transferred her to the other, smiling as she did so.

‘That’s it – it’s just as good that side.’

Then she looked again at Gerry. She sometimes felt he was almost as demanding as the baby, and not half so appealing.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll still be here when you come back.’

Still he hesitated, fussing over odd details, spinning out the time. Ellen answered him in monosyllables, waiting for him to go. Finally, he went. Ellen heard the front door close behind him and settled back with a sigh of relief. She only had to get the two lodgers off to work and then it was just the two of them, herself and Jessica. That was how she liked it.

The baby changed and sleeping soundly in the crib, Ellen got herself ready for the day as the kettle boiled and the porridge reheated on the range. The lodgers, a ship-repairer and a metalworker, appeared just in time to bolt down their breakfast, grab the bread and cheese Ellen had made for them and disappear out of the door. She was glad to see the back of them. They were no trouble and they contributed a good deal to the family income, but she resented their presence. They were one more nuisance to come between herself and Jessica. But now at last the house was hers. She ran upstairs to check on the baby, putting her hand under the covers to feel the minute rise and fall of her chest. It was all right; she was still breathing. She slept so soundly that sometimes Ellen almost believed she had died. She stood gazing down at the closed little face. Perfect. She could sit and just look at her all day, given the chance. But there were jobs to be done; shirts needing ironing, floors needing scrubbing, yet more washing for the baby, quite apart from the shopping and the cooking and the daily chore of
scrubbing the step and the sill and sweeping down the pavement. And then this afternoon she had promised to look after Maisie’s younger ones while Maisie turned out their back bedroom.

Downstairs on the range a bucket of water was heating. Ellen tied on a sacking apron, found the scrubbing brush and heaved the bucket out through the parlour to the front door, pausing on the way to look at herself in the mirror. She nodded at the reflection. Not bad. She told herself that she was hurrying to get the job done before Jessica woke again, but inside she knew there was another reason. If she got out there early enough, she might catch Harry on his way to work.

Out in the street, several other women were already busy with their steps. Some had got as far as doing the pavement. People were hurrying off to work, some still munching at doorsteps of bread. Older children were coming back from early-morning jobs. Ellen waved to her sister Daisy, who was on her way to Maconochie’s, and exchanged brief enquiries about their families.

She had just plumped the bucket down and plunged in the brush when the Turners’ door opened. Ellen’s heart turned over. She stared with intense concentration at the stone step.

‘’Bye, Mum. See you tonight!’

Ida came bounding out. Unbidden, disappointment gripped Ellen.

‘’Lo, Ellen. You’re at it early.’

‘Got a lot to do.’

‘Oo, you old married women! Got to rush. I’m late.’

Off she ran, shouting to a friend at the end of the road. Ellen marvelled at her cheerfulness. She had never gone to a day’s work at the factory so eagerly.

‘’Morning, Ellen.’

This time it was Florrie. Ellen smiled up with real pleasure.

‘’Lo, love.’

‘How’s the baby?’

‘Oh, she’s lovely – you must come and see –’

‘I will, I will, but not now. Ellen?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Pop in and see my mum during the day, would you?’

‘’Course. She not well?’

‘Oh – well – the usual. You know.’

‘Yeah. Right.’

She had been kept awake last night by the shouting and crashing next door.

‘Thanks a million, Ellen. ’Bye!’

Ellen sat back on her heels and watched her friend hurry up the road. Florrie was still too thin. Today she looked as if the wind would blow her away. Ellen was so engaged with worrying about her that she did not see the next person come out of the Turners’.

‘’Morning, Ellen.’

She jumped, the blood pumping into her face.

‘Oh – Harry – good morning.’

He was gone, tramping down the street with his hands thrust into the pockets of his heavy melton overcoat, his back uncompromisingly turned. She had not even caught a glimpse of his face. Unaccountably angry with both him and herself, she attacked the step as if the dirt on it were a personal affront.

It was later on in the morning, when she had just finished feeding the baby again, that her mother let herself in at the front door.

‘Coo–ee! Ellen?’

‘In the back, Mum.’

‘Ah.’ Martha swooped down on Jessica and took her in her arms. ‘How’s my little darling today, then?’

Jessica gave a windy grimace and belched delicately. Both women laughed.

‘Ah, ain’t she just the dearest little thing? And to think you wanted to leave her with me and go on working at that stall.’

Ellen smiled at such blind foolishness and got up to put the kettle on.

‘Yeah, daft, weren’t I? But that was before she was born, remember.’

It had been the subject of many a fierce argument between Gerry and herself. Gerry, who had seen his mother work herself ragged to provide for himself and Charlie, was determined that his wife should not have to do that, that his child should have a mum at home to care for it. Ellen was equally determined not to give up the fun and challenge of the stall. They were still rowing about it when she went into labour. It was Jessica herself who resolved the situation. Ellen could no more bear to leave her than to cut off a piece of herself.

She smiled at her mother, who was crooning at the baby. Martha had taken on a new lease of life since the birth of her grandchild. It was not as if Jessica was the first, for there were all Maisie’s, but as she put it herself, your son’s children belong more to the other granny. Jessica was hers. She healed all but a small part of the wound left by the little boy who had died, and finally reconciled her to the fact that there would be no more.

They drank their tea and discussed the doings of the street – Daisy’s
latest young man, Jack’s on-and-off relationship with Ida Turner, the tragedy of Mary O’Donaghue’s crippled son.

‘I was thinking, last night,’ Martha said, when they had exhausted the possibilities of their neighbours’ lives. ‘I was lying awake, and I got thinking, and I had this idea. Wouldn’t it be nice if we all went on a trip in the summer? We ain’t been on an outing since you was, what –?’

‘Six,’ Ellen said. ‘I was six and Will was at work and Jack and Daisy was just little ’uns. We went to Southend on the steamer. Oh, I remember that, all right.’

‘Yeah, it was lovely, weren’t it? One of the best days of my life. And what I thought was, why don’t we do it again?’

‘What, all of us? All the family? You lot and me and Gerry and Jessica, and Will and Maisie and their lot – oh, and I expect Gerry’s mum’d want to come too.’

‘Oh yeah, everybody, all the family. We’d have to save up. It’s not going to be easy for Will, but if they start now, putting something away each week . . . and I can help a bit. We’re all right now all you kids are off our hands or working. What d’you think?’

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea!’ Ellen’s imagination took fire. She saw sparkling blue waves, thrashing paddle wheels, Jessica waving at the seagulls, herself with the wind in her hair. And Southend! The pier and the bands and the beach and the candy floss. ‘Oh yes. Oh, Mum, you are a clever old thing. I’ll start saving right away. And I can help Will and Maisie out a bit, you know, on the quiet. And I suppose Jack and Daisy might want to take whoever they’re going out with along with them . . .’

Once started, the idea gathered size like a snowball rolling down a mountainside. Just as Ellen predicted, Alma was game, then Maiste wanted her family along, so the Turners were added, and then the Crofts, since both Florrie and Daisy were going out with Croft boys, and before they knew where they were, half the street was included. Even the Catholics began to take an interest, despite the fact that the Billinghams were in on it. It was thought that a trip would do Mary O’Donaghue-as-was the world of good, so she and her family were added, and then Pat and Declan and their wives and families wanted to come along until, wonder of wonders, Brian said one day that he and Clodagh were thinking of joining in.

‘Well,’ Martha said, relating this to Ellen, ‘I never thought I’d see the day. It’ll be worth it, just for that. I’ve always liked Clodagh O’Donaghue, and I never wanted to be on the outs with her, especially over something what that Charlie may or may not have done. I know
Alma thinks he’s God’s little white lamb, but between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if it
was
him what got her Theresa in the family way.’

‘Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised, neither,’ Ellen agreed, ‘but don’t never say it to Alma’s face.’

The question she really wanted to ask, the one that hung on her lips begging to be answered, was the one she could not speak – not even to her mother. Least of all to her mother. Her mother believed she was over it, believed she was happy with her home and her husband and her baby. She could rever admit otherwise, not to her mother. She knew very well what the answer would be:
Don’t be such a fool, forget all about it, don’t play with fire, count your blessings,
above all,
don’t act like your stupid brother.
And of course it was all so very true. She knew she should be happy with what she had. She
was
happy with what she had. So she said nothing, and listened out for clues.

It was Florrie who provided the answer. She was chatting to Ellen about the outing one Sunday afternoon, saying how she had almost got her fare saved.

‘. . . and me and Ida are putting some by for little Bob, but we ain’t telling my mum, so’s there’ll be some over, like, for spending. Ain’t no good going on an outing if you can’t buy a drink or two and an ice cream and go on the rides, now is it?’

‘Are all your family going?’ Ellen asked. The words sounded so pointed that she had to cover her tracks, to modify them. ‘Even your dad?’

‘Yeah, him an’ all.’ Florrie’s bright face twisted in contempt and loathing. ‘My mum’d catch it if he was left behind. I expect we’ll have to carry him home.’

Ellen gave a sympathetic nod. ‘So you’ll be a big party,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ Florrie gave a little shake to her shoulders, as if dismissing her father. ‘Yeah, it’s going to be good, ain’t it? Best thing we all done for ages.’

Her opinion was shared by the entire street. It was the first topic of conversation. Every misfortune was measured by it. Someone had lost a job, or was ill, or suffered an accident – would they still be able to come on the trip? Mothers used it to threaten children into good behaviour –
pack that up or you won’t go on the trip.
Not going became a real fear. It was Harry who thought of the back-up fund. He walked into the Rum Puncheon one evening and plumped an empty sweet jar on the bar.

‘What’s that, then, Harry?’

‘He’s brought his own pot with him – he don’t like the way they wash ’em up here.’

‘It’s in case he gets caught short!’

Harry joined in the general shout of laughter at this.

‘Go on then, Harry boy, what’s it for?’

‘It’s for the trip, for emergencies, like. We all put in what we can, then if anyone’s in a fix at the last minute and can’t pay for their, ticket, we get it out of this. That way, no one gets left out.’

They all looked at the jar with awe, as if a genie might billow out of it.

‘Blimey, Harry, that’s a blinder of an idea.’

‘A real corker.’

Harry dug in his pocket and produced a handful of loose change.

‘That’s to start it off,’ he said, letting it slide off his fingers with a loud clatter.

Of course, they all had to follow suit. From then on, the jar sat on the bar, challenging everyone’s generosity, reminding them that they might be the ones who needed a subsidy. The cash tinkled in, pennies and ha’pennies, even farthings, but over the weeks it mounted up, rising to the top, until the landlord had to change some of the coppers into silver to stop it all from flooding over.

And then Clodagh O’Donaghue dropped the bombshell.

Martha came straight over to Ellen’s to chew it over with her.

‘Have you heard? Have you heard who says she’s coming on the outing with us?’ She was so incensed she did not even ask after her favourite grandchild.

‘No, who?’ Ellen bustled about, filling the kettle, fetching teacups.

‘That Siobhan O’Donaghue.’

‘What?’

‘That little Irish slut.’

Ellen had never heard her mother use such strong terms before. She put the cups down on the table and stared at her.

‘How did she get to hear about it?’

‘The O’Donaghues told her, I suppose. She still sees them from time to time.’

It was dreadful. Her whole day would be ruined if Siobhan came.

‘Tell them she can’t come.’

‘I can’t do that, now can I?’ Martha sighed.

‘I don’t see why not. It’s your trip. You thought of it.’

‘But it don’t belong to me. It’s everyone’s. It’s the street’s trip.’

‘She don’t live here no more. She’s got no right.’

If Siobhan came along and made up to Harry . . . but she could not say this out loud. She had no rights over Harry any more. She was a married woman, a mother. She tried a different tack.

‘What’s poor Maise going to feel?’

‘Don’t you fret,’ her mother said grimly. ‘I’ll have a good talking to that son of mine before we go.’

But the pleasure had gone out of the anticipation. Whenever she planned what she would wear, she knew that Siobhan would be there, looking ten times more stunning. Whenever she thought about what they might do, she knew that Siobhan would take it up and turn it round to her own ends. The thought of her was like a grain of sand in her mind, rubbing and rubbing, producing not a pearl, but a great painful blister. Just to make it more irritating, Gerry thought Siobhan would make a useful addition to the party.