Trinidad Street (4 page)

Tom’s eyes sought his son, up on the deck. The vessel still had the old-fashioned hand winches, and Will was up there as winchman with one of the O’Donaghue boys. Stocky and straight-backed with well-muscled shoulders, he gave an illusion of height, though only in contrast with the undersized race that grew up in the streets of the Island. He was grown bigger than Tom, with a mind and a life of his own. A fine man, his Will, but wild. He had hoped Will would get a steady job, free from the hand-to-mouth life of the docker, but regular work had not agreed with him. He’d got the sack from five different places before taking his chances here at the docks. Even now he was larking about with Pat O’Donaghue; Tom could hear his laugh ringing out. ‘Don’t worry yourself,’ his wife Martha would say. ‘Don’t worry, he’s a good boy. He’ll settle, now he’s a married man. That Maisie’s a nice little thing. She’ll be a decent wife and a good mother.’ Tom hoped she was right.

‘Young fools.’ Brian O’Donaghue’s voice sounded at his shoulder, just a faint hint of a brogue softening the London accent. ‘Get themselves thrown off.’

‘No sense,’ Tom said.

Both men watched their sons with a mixture of irritation and pride.

‘Ah well, you’re only young once now, aren’t you?’ Brian was tolerant. ‘Let them have their time. Never did me no harm. Though you were always the serious one, now I call it to mind.’

‘Yeah.’ Things had been much worse when he had started work. That was before the great strike. At least now if you worked for an hour you were paid a tanner. But there was a long way to go yet. There was work to be done, battles to be won so that life could be better for Will, and for his unborn child.

‘Johnson!’ Alf Grant’s voice sliced through the rattle of machinery, through the rumble of engines, through countless human cries. ‘Johnson! Slacking again. Get back to work. I’ve no room for idle men.’

‘Slave-driving bastard,’ Brian muttered, without rancour.

Tom stayed still for just long enough to save face, holding Grant’s eyes, then turned slowly to pick up the next tub of molasses.

Up on the deck, Will Johnson and Pat O’Donaghue battled with the heavy winches, hauling the cargo up out of the hold and down into the
lighters clustered round the ship. They worked steadily for two hours or more, arms and backs straining, until a problem with the crane held up the rest of the gang. Will looked down at Alf Grant, who was blowing his top over the delay.

‘He’s got his hands nice and full,’ he said.

Pat nodded and grunted in reply. They let down the next load. Will straightened up.

‘Oi,’ he said, ‘can you do this?’

He stepped over to the edge of the hatch, where a narrow lip of wood about eight inches high ran all round the gaping hole. He put his booted foot up on the rim, steadied himself with his arms outstretched, then brought the other foot up and walked all the way along like a circus performer.

‘Easy!’

Not to be outdone, Pat O’Donaghue started doing the same along the opposite side. The younger men whistled and clapped. Flushed with danger and success, Will and Pat bowed.

‘Johnson! O’Donaghue! Cut that out.’

Grant was on to them. Fists on hips, scarlet with anger, he yelled up at them from the quayside.

‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing, holding up the whole bloody ship?’

Will opened his mouth and shut it again. You didn’t argue with Alf Grant. He’d have you thrown off as soon as look at you. But on the other hand he was damned if he was going to say sorry like a schoolboy. While he was still standing there making his mind up, his father joined in.

‘They ain’t holding up nothing, Mr Grant. It’s the crane what’s stopping us,’ he pointed out.

Grant rounded on him. ‘It ain’t stopping them, Johnson, and well you know it. They should be working them winches. It’s idleness what’s stopping them.’

He bawled up at Will and Pat to get on with it, and set about Tom again.

‘And as for you, Johnson, I had it up to here with you. You’re for it now. You put your bloody nose in where it’s not wanted once too often. I got no more room for troublemakers like you.’

Will glanced at his friend. ‘Bloody hell, he’s for it now, my old man.’

The pair of them went back to the winch. The break had given them enough energy to carry on to the end of the long day.

The crane was sorted out and the work resumed. Grant stationed
himself near Tom’s gang and barked every time one of them so much as paused for a breather. It was a grim afternoon, and at six o’clock it was practically dark. The cargo of glucose tubs was all neatly stacked in the huge warehouse. The men dumped their last burdens, flexed their aching muscles and knocked off. Will and Pat joined their fathers and Pat’s brother Declan, ready to walk out together.

‘Johnson!’ Grant came striding along the quay, looking like the cat that had got the cream. ‘You’re wanted in the gov’nor’s office.’

Tom wooden-faced, met his eye.

‘What for?’ he asked.

‘You’ll find out.’ The man was grinning at him, malicious satisfaction oozing from every pore.

Tom was not to be intimidated. ‘All right, all right. There’s a thing or two I want to see the gov’nor about and all.’ He turned to Will and the O’Donaghues. ‘Get one in for me. I’ll see you at the Kingsbridge.’

‘Right you are, mate,’ Brian agreed.

Will watched his father walk off with Alf Grant and hesitated, wondering whether to wait for him.

‘You coming, Will?’ Pat O’Donoghue called to him.

He took one more look at the retreating back, and recognized by the set of his father’s shoulders that this was going to be a long session. He didn’t need him as much as Will needed a drink.

‘Yeah, coming,’ he called back.

He fell in beside the O’Donaghues as they joined the flood of men heading for the dock gates: small men, ill dressed in stained jackets and ragged trousers, all wearing flat caps and heavy much-mended boots, and slouching because it was the end of the day, wanting only to get out, to get paid, to get home or to the pub.

There was a queue at the main gate as they all funnelled under the impressive great archway with its bronze model of a three-masted sailing ship on top. Ahead of them the dock police stopped a man.

There was an argument before he was led away to be searched. Will watched him with detached sympathy. He knew the man by sight; he lived over in Cubitt Town somewhere. He hoped the police were picking on him just because they didn’t like the look of him. They often did that. You were searched and questioned and set free. They did it to try and stop you nicking stuff, but it didn’t work. Everyone pocketed things, it was part of the game.

Out in the grey street at last, they walked along by the high prisonlike wall of the dock until they came to the pub where the contractor paid out. They queued again, this time for their wages, had the
customary squabble over hours, felt the warm weight of silver in their pockets. Six shillings for twelve hours’ labour. Riches.

The O’Donaghues managed to get a table while Pat lined the drinks up.

‘Here y’are, Will, one for you and one for your dad.’

‘He won’t be in for a while,’ Will said. ‘You know what he’s like. Arguing the point with the gov’nor, most like.’

They all nodded. They knew Tom Johnson. But they had hardly finished agreeing on it before Will spotted him in the pay queue, and he did not look like a man who had just won a battle. Will sampled his beer, looking at his father over the top of the glass. He was standing hunched up, not speaking to anyone, which in itself was unusual. His dad was a great one for talking. Will wondered what was up.

At length Tom appeared, slumped down on the seat they had saved for him and took a long pull at his brown ale. Brian handed him a cigarette.

‘It’s a dog’s life,’ he said.

The others nodded in solemn agreement.

More pints arrived on their table. Pat, Will and Declan had a race to see who could down a pint the fastest. The pub was crowded. People were standing between the tables. It was Friday and there was only one more day till sainted Sunday off. Caps were tipped back, jackets unbuttoned, faces glowed red. Quite a few men had started in on the serious drinking, glasses of gin in front of them. A roar of laughter came from one corner and the joke was repeated from mouth to mouth. Brian was telling a long tale about his bantam cock.

‘– So I shut the little bleeder up, but damn me if he didn’t get out again. Must’ve pecked away at the catch. His own hens ain’t enough for him, y’see. Half a dozen I got in that run, half a dozen little beauties! Bright eyes, lovely feathers. Won the Bantam hen prize last summer in the show with one of ’em, I did.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ Declan pushed his chair back and heaved himself to his feet. ‘I’m going to throw up.’

Of one accord, Pat and Brian grabbed his arms and started to shoulder a path towards the door, shouting at people to get out of the way. But they were too late. There were shouts of protest, curses. Those out of the way laughed and jeered. The landlord sent a barmaid over to clean up.

‘If that boy of yours can’t hold his drink, don’t bother bringing him in here,’ he grumbled.

Brian traded insults and manoeuvred his son into the fresh air.

‘Finish the drinks for me, Tom,’ he called back through the crowd. ‘I’m taking the boy home. Must’ve been something he ate.’

The empty chairs were filled, Grant’s character torn to shreds. Tom came out of his silent fit and became more like his normal self. Will almost forgot he had been worried. He looked at his father, who was leaning forward, jabbing at the sticky table top to emphasize a point he was making, a compact, sturdy man with a broken tooth and a frill of greying hair sticking out from under his cap.

Will listened to the older men’s talk for a while. They respected his father, brought their problems and complaints to him, and trusted him to take up cudgels on their behalf. He watched as they listened to what his dad had to say, nodding sometimes in agreement. It gave him a feeling of family pride. His dad could get them all behind him. Will didn’t know quite how he did it; but if there was another strike like the one back in ‘89, his dad would be there in the thick of it, organizing the action in their part of the Island.

His attention wandered. He didn’t care about Alf Grant, or the governors. He knew he could earn a good day’s wage whenever he wanted. He was young and strong and nearly always called on. A day’s labouring left him tired, but nowhere near exhausted. A wash and a good meal inside him and he was ready for an evening out.

He started talking to a couple of mates about the Millwall Rovers’ chances in the next game. He felt warm and relaxed. The beer slid easily down inside him, loosening his tongue, making him feel good. Friday night. His pay hung pleasantly heavy in his pocket, his mates were game for anything, and it was almost the best time of the week.

His dad was standing up. Will eyed the barmaid threading her way with difficulty through the crowd, collecting empties, exchanging banter. He’d fancied her for a while, with her wide smile and ripe body. He watched her as she raised her arms to lift the glasses over the heads of the close-packed men. When she did that, her full breasts moved. He envied the men she brushed against as she passed.

‘Coming, Will?’

‘Not yet.’

He would speak to the barmaid when she came over here.

‘Your Maisie’ll be waiting for you.’

The words ‘Let her wait’ formed on his tongue, but something in his father’s tone made him swallow them. He dragged his eyes away from the woman and looked at the remains of his drink, his filthy hands and grimy clothes. A wash, a good meal, an evening out and then Maisie. It was a prospect worth moving for.

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.’

He drained his glass and stood up. Perhaps he would take Maisie out with him. He followed his father out into the street.

The West Ferry Road was still busy. Buses filled with homeward-bound workers, brightly painted vans, huge heavy drays and carts of every size and description from hand barrows to flat waggons choked the roadway. On the pavement men and women heading home from factories and foundries and repair yards jostled with children scampering along on errands and street sellers shouting their wares.

‘Oranges, who will buy my fresh oranges?’

‘Chestnuts, chestnuts, all lovely and hot!’

Will ignored them with difficulty because he was hungry now that he was out in the air. Head down, shoulders hunched against the raw cold, he plodded along, matching his stride to his father’s. He wondered what was for tea, hoped it was a bit of fried fish. It was some time before it struck him that his old man was very quiet.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

He remembered then, in a rush, Alf Grant coming up to him at the end of the day, taking him off to the office.

‘Come on, Dad, something’s biting you. What did the gov’nor want?’

There was a silence for the length of half a block. Will wondered whether his father had not heard him, or if he was just not answering.

‘He gave me the sack.’ His tone was so matter-of-fact that it took a moment or two for the words to sink in. It was terrible. His dad was a preference man, called on first after the permanents for any job that was going. Their household was always fairly certain of something coming in each week, whereas the others, the casuals, never knew whether they would get work or not.

‘
What?
They never give you the sack for sticking up for me and Pat?’

‘That was just the excuse.’

‘Bloody hell, Dad. I never thought – Christ, what can I say? I’m sorry.’

His father shrugged. ‘It weren’t you and Pat, lad. Like I said, that was just an excuse. It’s been on the cards for a long time. They don’t like me. I make things too uncomfortable for them.’

‘It’s bloody unfair,’ Will said.

‘The whole system’s bloody unfair, son. Bosses in their big houses sitting on their arses making money out of the sweat of the workers is unfair. But don’t you worry, it ain’t the end of the world. I’ll go casual.
And I won’t stop making things uncomfortable for them, neither. One of these days they’ll have to have a proper reason for sacking a man. They won’t be able to throw him out just because his face don’t fit. They’ll have to prove he’s no good at the job.’