Trinidad Street (63 page)

An appalling smell rose from the baby.

‘He got the runs?’ Ellen asked.

Maisie sighed. ‘Yeah. I’m out of things to put him in. Can’t get the washing proper clean with no hot water. Poor little soul.’

Ellen rummaged around in the laundry pile and produced some baby clothes.

‘Here, they ain’t ironed yet, but they are clean. I’ll get you some water to wash him in.’

Between them, they cleaned up the baby.

Only his mother, Ellen decided, could think that Billy was lovable. He was a scrawny-looking little thing at the best of times, always poorly. Just at the moment, stinking to high heaven, he was really quite revolting. She dropped the soiled clothes into a bucket and put them outside the door.

‘I’ll boil those up for you later, if you like,’ she offered.

‘Oh, would you, Ellen? I’d be ever so grateful.’

They were interrupted by Jessica coming into the house in tears. Teddy was trailing behind her.

‘What’s the matter, pet?’ Ellen took her daughter in her arms.

‘They w-won’t p-play with me.’

‘They won’t? Why not?’ But she knew the answer before it came.

‘’Cos my dad’s not on strike.’

Anger filled Ellen’s heart. They could cut her if they liked – she didn’t care. But she was not having her children upset. She stood up.

‘We’ll see about that,’ she said.

She marched to the front door and wrenched it open, ignoring Maisie’s entreaty to leave off. The glare outside made her blink and the heat coming off the brickwork was like an oven. She could practically feel the doorstep burning up through her boots. Everyone was over the other side of the road, using what shade there was.

‘Who said it to you?’ she asked Jessica.

The child pointed.

Assorted young children were sitting on the kerb, staring at her. Behind them was ranged a group of mothers, including the woman who had moved into her old home. She had managed to give something to all of them in the last few days – not much, but enough to tide them over one more meal. But they stood, arms folded across their
stomachs, shoulders leant against the wall, ignoring her. Ellen could not believe this was happening. These people had always been her friends and neighbours. They had all been through so much together. She walked across the street.

‘What’s all this about my Jessica not being allowed to play because her dad’s not on strike?’ she asked loudly.

Each of the five women shifted a little and stood more upright or moved her arms or tightened her expression.

‘Ain’t no lie in that.’

‘’S all right for some, with money still coming in.’

‘Rest of us are in it together.’

Uneasy on her mind was the fact that Gerry had been blacklegging, fetching goods on a cart while the carmen were on strike. It made her all the fiercer.

‘Bloody hell! If my Gerry was a docker or a lighterman, he’d be out. What do you expect him to do, shut up the stall?’

‘Some might do that, if they was really neighbourly.’

‘Yeah, but she always did set herself up, didn’t she? Went to the Central when all the rest of us was out to work.’

‘Yeah, didn’t marry a decent working man. Waited till she could get Gerry Billingham. Him with his stalls and his shop and all his fancy ideas.’

‘Jealous, that’s what you are,’ Ellen accused.

She became aware of someone standing beside her.

‘You just lay off!’ Florrie cried. ‘Ellen’s got her troubles. No call to go picking on her just ’cos her old man’s not in dock work.’

Eager for entertainment, people were gathering round. There was nothing like a good row to spice up the day. If it developed into a fight, so much the better.

‘That’s right, girl, you tell ’em,’ a male voice encouraged.

‘Give it what for!’

Daisy came marching up, belligerence in every line of her body. ‘Who’s getting at my sister?’ she demanded. ‘No one gets at my sister. You lot of old witches better pipe down.’

Some backed down a little before the heroine of the Maconochie’s walk-out. But not all of them.

‘’S all right for them without kids and all. Don’t have to worry then, do you?’

Daisy went white. Her marriage to Wilf Hodges had not yet produced any children. This time it was Ellen who flew to her defence.

‘That’s a wicked cruel thing to say! You just take that back.’

‘Yeah, take it back,’ Florrie echoed.

The menfolk began to line up with their women. Jimmy appeared at Florrie’s side, Wilf draped an arm round Daisy.

‘You take no notice of ’em, girl.’

Ellen felt raw and undefended. Gerry, of course, was at work. And even if he had been there, he would not have been much use. He never had been any use in fights.

‘What’s all this flaming fuss about, then?’

Harry was shouldering his way through the knot of onlookers. When they saw who it was, they parted to let him pass. Ellen felt a great wave of love and gratitude and relief. It was all right; Harry was here.

‘Ain’t we got enough on our hands with the gov’nors to fight?’ he demanded.

‘Her and her old man ain’t got no fight with them,’ one woman stated, waving an arm in Ellen’s direction.

‘No more has Percy Goodhew up at the Puncheon. But there’d be trouble if he shut down in sympathy,’ Harry said.

‘That’s different.’

‘No, it ain’t. And what’s more, Gerry Billingham’s my cousin. He’s one of our own. So are the Johnsons. So if anyone wants to pick a fight with one of them, they got to get through me first.’ Harry looked slowly round. He was balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, and his hands beckoned, inviting anyone who chose to take a swing at him.

‘Come on, then. Who says the Billinghams ain’t one of our own, eh? Anyone want to have it out?’

All round the circle, men and women subsided, some with reluctance, many muttering, but backing down all the same. When it came to the point, they weren’t serious enough to want to tangle with Harry Turner. The crowd began to melt away. Some of the men went off to the Puncheon. The women retreated to their doorsteps. The children resumed their games. Ellen and her supporters were left in a group at the kerbside. She wanted to hurl herself at Harry and hug him, to feel his arms round her and the strength of his body against hers. She wanted to have him stroke her hair and say, ‘Nobody threatens my Ellen and gets away with it!’ Instead she just gave him a tight smile.

‘Thanks, Harry. That was a nasty moment.’

‘No trouble.’ He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. ‘They ought to know better than to fight amongst themselves at a time like this. But I don’t think they’ll have a go at you again now.’

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ Ellen agreed.

But it was an uneasy peace. Ellen retreated to Alma’s, where Maisie was nervously waiting and Billy again needed changing. At midday she hardly liked to call the children in for their dinner, since she knew that for many there was next to nothing on the table.

When she went out to collect them, hoping to do it without attracting too much attention, there was a distinctive smell hanging in the still, hot air. She stood outside the door, sniffing, and as she did so, she could see that others were doing the same.’

‘Someone’s having a nice fry-up,’ Ellen’s neighbour remarked. ‘All right for some.’

‘Well, it ain’t me,’ Ellen snapped.

‘Never said it was, girl. Where’s it coming from, though? That’s what I’d like to know. Who’s found eggs and bacon for their dinner?’

‘And kippers, I’m sure I can smell kippers,’ someone else said.

‘Smells more like sausage to me. Blimey, what I wouldn’t give for a plate of nice juicy bangers and a good heap of mash.’

‘Shrimps are what I fancy. Nice dish of shrimps and one of winkles, with plenty of vinegar to dip ’em in.’

‘Or whelks, while you’re about it, or jellied eels.’

The fantasies came thick and fast, fuelled by hunger and the knowledge that at the very most there was a thin slice of bread and scrape for dinner.

‘Where
is
that smell coming from?’

Ellen could guess, but something made her keep quiet. She let her neighbour voice her suspicions.

‘You know what I think? I think it’s that Siobhan O’Donaghue. She’s the only one round here what can have a fry-up for her dinner.’

‘Breakfast, more like. Never gets up of a morning, she don’t. Gets up at dinnertime.’

‘Had a good supper last night an’ all, most like.’ Ellen could not longer resist joining in. ‘At one of them fancy chop-houses or something. Supper and a couple of bottles of beer, or even wine. With some gentleman friend.’

‘Yeah, that’s all she cares about,’ Maisie chipped in.

There were dangerous rumblings all round.

‘I saw her the other day, talking to Micky Docherty.’

‘Best not tell Maureen Docherty. You know what a one she is.’

‘Why ever not? I’d like to see Maureen Docherty give her what for. Sight for sore eyes, that’d be.’

‘It’s not just the Catholics, neither. I saw her talking to Bobby Crott. Slobbering over her, he was.’

‘Shame! And him ten years younger than what she is!’

Ellen sensed she was back in the fold. They all knew there was no love lost between her and Siobhan O’Donaghue.

‘I got a big pot of tea brewing,’ she said. ‘Anyone want a cup?’

Only a while ago she would have been afraid to ask in case it was interpreted as showing off. Now the offer was gratefully accepted. Cups were produced, tea was poured. There was no milk, since the strike had stopped deliveries, but Ellen still had some sugar. They all took steaming cups back to their meagre meals. And the smell of fried eggs and bacon still hung over the street, adding to the simmering unrest.

Far away upriver, a solitary figure walked slowly along the Strand. Respectable people avoided looking at her, since her clothes gave her away. The low-cut purple dress and scarlet feathered hat could only be worn by a woman of one profession. Women drew their skirts to one side to avoid contamination as they passed her. Men assumed expressions of moral righteousness. They might stray from the straight and narrow more than once in a while, but never did they sink as low as something like that. The woman appeared not to notice them. Slowly she plodded, one foot then the other, on and on, keeping close to the kerb as if she knew that her real place was the gutter.

All that morning she had walked, doggedly going west. At first if she stopped to rest, nobody cared. She was just one more unfortunate like themselves, too poor to trouble to rob. Once she reached the better class of street, things were different. If she stopped, a policemen would materialize as if out of nowhere and move her on with threats of arrest. Slower and slower her footsteps dragged as the sun rose higher in the brazen sky. Several times she just avoided death beneath spinning wheels as she stepped unheeding into traffic. She seemed not to hear the curses of drivers.

It was exactly midday when she arrived at Westminster. She swayed and clutched at a lamp post as Big Ben’s chimes rang out majestically across the richest city on earth. She leant precariously, staring across at the tower. She could go no further. It would have to be here. She began to walk across Westminster Bridge.

She had nothing on her that might identify her. She had thought of all that beforehand. She had walked all this way so that she would not end up anywhere near home, for she still thought of Millwall as home.
Nobody must ever know her shame, not even after she was gone –
especially
then, since to take your own life was a mortal sin. The lessons of childhood could never really be eradicated, even by the life she had led.

By the time she reached the centre of the bridge, her strength was nearly spent. But for once, fate was with her. There was nobody near enough to stop her. She hesitated only long enough to pull out a heavy gold cross on a piece of string and hold it tightly in her hand. Then she jumped.

The planning worked. Her body was pulled out long before it was washed down to Millwall. The inquest stated her to be an unknown prostitute, about thirty years old, suffering from advanced syphilis. Theresa O’Donaghue had taken her secret to the grave.

PRACTICALLY THE WHOLE
street turned out after dinner that day. The strikers were to march through the streets of Millwall to the East India Dock Road for a mass meeting. The men assembled in the road, some with serious faces, others looking self-conscious, many of the younger ones larking about and showing off. Despite the blazing heat, all were respectably dressed. No shirtsleeves or bare heads were to be seen. If the world and possibly the press was going to see them, they were going to look decent. The women, children and old folk gathered on the pavements to see the show.

Harry, speaking for Tom Johnson, gave last-minute instructions. Will Johnson appeared with the contingent from his street. The children were wild with excitement, shrieking and jumping around, while the young girls giggled together and called out to the lads they fancied. And above the racket, from away along the West Ferry Road, the faint sound of a brass band could be heard.

‘Listen!’ somebody shouted.

After a great deal of hushing, some of the voices piped down. The band could definitely be heard, playing ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’. A cheer broke out. Nearer and nearer the music came, till Tom judged it was about time they started off. A forward wave of his arm, together with a shout from Harry, and the procession set forth, an army in grey and brown and black, with patched boots and flat caps, off to stand up and be counted for what they believed in.

The children skipped and marched and ran alongside. Some of the women followed at a modest distance, the mothers with babies on their hips and toddlers hanging on their skirts. They stopped at the West Ferry Road and watched as their menfolk joined the main procession, waving and cheering as they all filed by.

It was a stirring sight. Poorly dressed and badly shod and undernourished they might be, but all together they made up something to be reckoned with. Against the drab buildings and dull clothing, the banners of the union branches made bold splashes of
colour, scarlet and royal blue and green, with lettering and fringes of gold. Up the thoroughfare they tramped, accompanied by a posse of special policemen, past shops half empty or closed because of the strike action, and halted what traffic was left on the road. A second band brought up the rear, and a froth of children and stray dogs frolicked behind. And then they were gone, off to make their statement to the world.