Trinidad Street (65 page)

‘Siobhan? Can I come in?’

A suspicious face appeared. ‘Ellen? What the devil do you want? I’ve nothing to say to you.’

‘But I want to talk to you.’

She didn’t know quite why, just that it was important. She leant her shoulder against the door and pushed. With a sigh, Siobhan relented and let her in. There was a scratch of a match and then the lamp flared. Ellen caught her breath. She had heard rumours of the magnificence of Siobhan’s home, she had even seen the stuff going in, but it had not prepared her for the full effect. There was a blue and fawn patterned carpet square on the floor, where other people just had oilcloth. There were two upholstered armchairs covered in a flowery chintz. There were lamps with frilly shades. There was a sideboard with glassware that glistened and sparkled in the light. And all over the walls there were photographs of Siobhan in her many stage costumes, smiling, preening, asking to be admired. Speechless, Ellen could only gape.

‘Like it?’ Siobhan was watching her, that superior smile on her face again.

‘Very pretty,’ Ellen said.

Something was wrong, but she could not put her finger on it. She was too dazzled by the opulence. Instead she said, off the top of her head, ‘What happened to the conjuror?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The conjuror. What’s-his-name. The Great Cornelius.’

‘Oh, him. I gave him the push. He wasn’t good enough for me.’ She gave a shrug, as if the man had been nothing more than a troublesome fly, Ellen decided. Yet at the time she had been glad enough to drag him down here for Florrie’s wedding. Siobhan stood there in her fashionable gown, with the smell of greasepaint and powder still on her, not asking Ellen in as a neighbour might, just standing, barring the way further into the house.

‘Ain’t no one good enough for you, then?’ Ellen asked.

‘No, they are not that.’

‘Must be lonely for you, on your own.’

‘I’m not on my own. My cousin Shelagh’s here.’

Shelagh was the widowed relation who kept house for her. But that was not what Ellen meant, and they both knew it.

‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’

‘Just wondered.’

And then it came to her what was wrong with the room. It was all brand spanking new, as if Siobhan had gone out and bought it all at one go especially to come here. She followed the train of thought. If that was so, then Siobhan had brought nothing with her from wherever she had been.

‘Why did you come back here?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Why are you here asking me all these questions?’ Siobhan countered. ‘I didn’t ask you to call. I don’t have to say nothing to you. This is my house. All mine.’ She walked slowly round the room, touching pieces of furniture and ornaments, glancing at Ellen from time to time, watching for signs of envy.

Ellen did not give her the pleasure. She kept doggedly to what she now knew was the reason for her visit. ‘I can’t see why you come back. If you’re so rich and no man’s good enough for you, what are you doing back on Dog Island? I’d’ve thought this street wasn’t good enough for you.’

Siobhan paused by the sideboard. Above it was a row of photographs. Four faces smiled sweetly down from the wall, a completely different person from the live one who stared back at Ellen with eyes as hard as slate and lines of cruelty round the mouth.

‘You’re just like all the rest. In fact, you’re worse than all the rest, because you’re even more jealous than they are. You can’t bear it that I took Harry away from you.’

‘I’m not jealous,’ Ellen said, and it was true. The fight had released her, had drained away all the hatred that had built up over the years. She could see Siobhan clearly now, beyond the front she put up to the world. ‘I’m not jealous of you, I’m sorry for you. I’m sorry that you got nobody what cares for you. That’s why you come back, weren’t it? You come back because nobody wanted you. You had to run away from something, didn’t you? Or someone. That’s why all this stuff is new. You ran back to your family to be safe. Blood’s thicker than water and all that, so they got to back you up, and they do, because they’re good people. But they don’t like you, Siobhan, they don’t like
you any more than what all the rest of us do. They’re just putting up with you because you’re related. I think it’s sad. I’m glad I’m not you.’

There was a tense stillness about Siobhan. ‘Have you finished?’ she asked, her voice dangerously level.

Ellen briefly considered mentioning the baby, saying she was sorry about that as well, but she abandoned the thought. It was not necessary.

‘Yes, thank you. I found out what I wanted to know. I’ll go now. Good night.’

Siobhan moved so swiftly that for a precious few seconds Ellen could only gape at her. Then, just in time, she dodged. A vase came flying across the room to hit the wall just inches away from her head. It broke with a crash and shattered, glass splinters scattering over half the room. One grazed Ellen’s cheek, others lodged in her hair, pieces opened cuts on her bare arms. Too shocked for speech, she stared at Siobhan, choking down the scream that rose in her throat.

‘I hate you, Ellen Johnson. I’ll hate you till I die!’ Siobhan was shaking, her face contorted with fury. She reached behind her for another missile. This time a sense of self-preservation came to Ellen’s rescue. She whisked out of the door and pulled it shut behind her just as something else crashed against it. Then she ran.

She reached the safety of Alma’s house and went straight through to the kitchen and shook her head over the sink. Only when she was sure she had got all the glass out of her hair and her clothes did she sit down, and then she did so with a rush, for her legs had gone to string. And for a long time she just sat there, while the scene played over and over in her head. The more she thought about it, the more she knew she had spoken the truth. She was sorry for Siobhan. Her life was empty. She was not a great success as a music-hall artiste, she was just a third-rate act. She had nobody to call her own, no children to love, and her relations only put up with her because she was family. And she was left nursing a murderous hatred. Ellen knew all about that. She had felt the same and it was a terrible thing. She was glad to be purged of it.

By comparison, she knew herself to be rich. She might not have the man she loved, she might not have a place of her own at the moment, but when she looked at what Siobhan had, she was blessed. Slowly, she stood up and went upstairs to join her family.

It was late Friday morning and the air of tension over the street was so thick it could almost be tasted. Rumour was rife about the outcome of the various strike negotiations. First it was said that the Government
had made all the employers agree to the men’s terms, then that the Army was moving in and martial law had been proclaimed, then that the unions had given in and everything was back to how it was before the strike. With each rumour, hopes soared or slumped, till nobody knew what to believe. Of one thing they were sure, though: today was the day. Now that the Government had stepped in, there would soon be a settlement one way or the other.

The women were better off than the men. There were still steps to scrub, beds to make, children to care for. Despite the lack of money, food had to be got from somewhere, even if it was just bread and scrape. They still had a purpose in life. The men just hung about, waiting for news.

Martha stopped by to see Ellen.

‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing too much of Siobhan today,’ she remarked, glancing towards the closed door and drawn curtains.

‘No,’ Ellen agreed.

‘How’s my latest grandson, then?’

‘I dunno, Mum. He’s still poorly. He don’t seem to keep anything down. You come and look.’

The two women went into the stuffy kitchen and looked down at the baby lying in his pram. His face was scarlet and he was whimpering. Martha reached out to feel his forehead.

‘Poor little soul, he’s ever so hot.’

‘And look at his arms and legs, Mum. I’ll swear they’re thinner. He’s hardly taking anything from me, and what he does have he throws right back.’

‘You been giving him anything to drink?’

‘I tried giving water from a teaspoon, but most of it just dribbles out.’

‘Well, I should keep trying, lovey. He needs to have something inside of him. He’s going to starve otherwise. Seems to me he’s got the same as what little Billy’s got. I’m just off round to see Maisie now. You know what she’s like. With Will gone off with your dad to find out about these blooming strikes, she’ll be all at sixes and sevens, and Billy’s always been poorly. She needs someone to help.’

‘Yeah.’ Ellen could not spare a great deal of concern for Maisie at the moment. She was too worried about Tom.

Her mother gave a brief hug. ‘He’ll be all right, lovey. Jess and Teddy both been ill like this and they was all right after. And it’s not as if he’s a weakly baby. He’s a strong little scrap, like his grandad. He’ll pull through, you’ll see.’

Ellen was not reassured. She knew, as her mother did, that these stomach upsets carried off more babies than anything else.

‘I hope so, Mum. I couldn’t bear to lose him.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s a bit special to you, ain’t he?’ Martha’s tone was carefully neutral.

Ellen looked at her. Her mother’s face was unreadable. ‘They’re all special, all three of ’em.’

‘That’s right, lovey. So they are. I got to go now. I’ll stop by later and see how he is.’

Ellen was left wondering just how much her mother knew. She sat by herself in the kitchen, spooning water into the baby’s unwilling mouth and cleaning him up each time he vomited or soiled himself. She could not think where it was all still coming from. He had not had a proper feed since yesterday evening.

Outside, the street was divided into two camps. Of Siobhan they saw nothing, just as Martha had predicted, but led by Clodagh O’Donaghue, the Irish community kept to their end of the road and refused to talk to anyone else. Clodagh had never really forgiven the Billinghams and everyone connected with them for Theresa’s downfall, and however much she might disapprove of Siobhan, this new attack on her family was not to be passed off with a shrug and a laugh. She stood with folded arms and glared at the enemy, forbidding Brian to go off with the Johnsons to find out what was happening about the pay negotiations.

‘Ye’ll find out soon enough without having to associate with the likes of them,’ she declared.

Brian, who knew her moods of old, contented himself with the thought of a pint at the Puncheon directly Percy opened up for the day.

Many of the men were already in the pub when the Johnsons and Harry arrived back. The two younger men sprinted ahead, eager to tell the news. Tom followed them at a fast walk, breaking into a jog at times, borne along by the euphoria of victory. He could still hardly believe it had happened. He scarcely felt the ground beneath his feet or the protesting rasp of his lungs as he hurried along. When he reached Trinidad Street, a crowd was already gathering round Harry and Will. Out of the Rum Puncheon they came, off the doorsteps and through from the kitchens, men, women and children, all keen to hear what had happened.

‘What’s up?’

‘Have we won?’

‘Is it over?’

Everyone was asking everyone else and calling out to Harry and Will. English and Irish alike were pushing to get to the front and hear the latest.

‘Come on, Will, let’s have it.’

‘We got to wait for Dad. Where’s Dad got to?’

The outer edge of the crowd surged forward to meet Tom, surrounding him and bearing him towards his son and Harry at the centre. They could tell it was good tidings by the glow on his face. Friendly hands slapped him on the back as he passed by. He reached Will’s side at last.

‘Come on, Dad. It’s your day. You tell ’em.’

Tom shook his head. He was breathless. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest.

‘I can’t, son. You do it.’

Will had learnt a lot since that first time his father made him stand up and address a meeting. He spread his arms and waited till nearly everyone was quiet.

‘Friends, this morning great things have been happening.’

Cheers broke out.

‘The carmen have come to an agreement. They have been given nearly everything they asked for.’

Slightly less enthusiastic cheers, since nobody in the street was actually a carman.

‘What about us?’ Jimmy Croft shouted.

‘I’m coming to that, friends.’ Will paused, and something approaching a hush fell over the expectant crowd.

‘The employers have finally agreed that all dockers and stevedores, whether casual or permanent, on deep-sea or coastal trades, in the enclosed docks or on the wharves, shall now work from seven in the morning till six in the evening.’

An hour less was good, but that was not what they were waiting for.

‘What about the money?’

‘And –’ Again there was a pause for quiet. ‘And every man shall be paid eightpence an hour, with a shilling overtime!’

The gathering erupted into whistles and yells. Caps were thrown in the air, men shook each other by the hand, some of the women wept with relief and children capered around.

‘We done it, we done it!’

‘But what about the lightermen?’

Will turned to Harry. ‘Come on, you tell ’em.’

Harry had some difficulty in making himself heard. The dockers and
stevedores and their families were still laughing and shouting and congratulating each other. The lightermen who lived in the street had to push their way to the front.

‘We got our ten-hour day and a shilling overtime. They’re still arguing over the weekly wage, but I reckon they ain’t got no choice now. They’ll have to give us our two quid.’

The whole crowd was now cheering. Tom stood in the thick of it, the voices ringing in his ears. This was what he had been working for, all these years: a brotherhood of working men, supporting each other for the common good. At first he hardly heard Harry speaking urgently to him.

‘. . . the message?’

‘What?’ he asked.

‘The message from Gosling and Tillett. You’re the one what ought to give it.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘Yeah, I’ll do that, if they’ll listen.’