Trinidad Street (8 page)

‘She’s amazing – I never guessed she could sing like that.’ Will forced himself not to look at her, but he was very aware of her listening to his words.

‘No more did we, till we heard her one evening.’

‘She ought to be on the halls. She’d be a star turn.’

He felt rather than heard Siobhan’s intake of breath and knew he had put his finger on something.

Brian was looking disapproving. ‘What, and have her up on a stage with any Tom, Dick and Harry in London with the price of a seat in his pocket staring at her? Wouldn’t be proper.’

‘She’d make a fortune,’ Will said.

‘Fortune be damned. ’Tis no way for a respectable girl to make a living.’

Pat and Declan nodded in agreement.

Will stole a sideways glance at Siobhan. She was sitting looking into her drink, saying nothing, but there was a mutinous set to her full lips.

‘You let her sing this evening,’ he pointed out.

‘That was different. That was hardly more than doing a turn at a ceilidh. You must see the difference, lad. You wouldn’t be wanting your sister or your wife going on the stage in a music hall, now would you?’

Will most certainly would not. But Siobhan was waiting for him to speak on her behalf.

‘They ain’t got the talent. Siobhan has. Anyone could see that. Those people in the Harp this evening, they’d have done anything for her. They’d have done murder for her if she’d asked.’

He would do murder for her himself right now if she asked.

‘She’s not going on the stage, and that’s that,’ Brian said.

‘Well, I think it’s a shameful waste,’ Will told him.

He did not know how he got through the rest of the evening. He tried to act normally, to talk to Pat and Declan and Brian as if nothing had happened, and all the while he was aching to get Siobhan to himself. The pale skin of her forearm with its down of silky hairs, the soft curve of her body beneath her green cotton dress nearly choked him with desire. He had to get to talk to her. Not that he knew what he could say.

His chance came on the way home. Declan had run into a friend and gone off to another pub. Pat and Brian were walking ahead, talking over some family matter. Will fell in beside Siobhan.

‘I meant what I said earlier – about you going on the halls,’ he said. ‘You’d be grand.’

‘So they all say.’ She took the compliment as nothing more than the truth. ‘But you heard them, they won’t be letting me anywhere near a theatre.’

‘Do you have to have their say-so?’

‘They’re my family.’

Will understood that. Family was what protected you from the world. Family was strength. Without it you were nothing, no one.

‘Maybe they’ll come round. Give them time.’

‘Sure, and maybe they’ll not.’ She sounded bitter.

‘Do you ever get away from them?’ Will was visited by inspiration. He looked ahead. Pat and Brian were laughing over something. They couldn’t hear him. ‘I could take you to the Empire, to see what you’re aiming for.’

For fully five seconds she was silent. Their feet clattered on the paving stones, hers a quick tap-tap, his a steady clump. He did not know how he kept walking. He did not dare look at her. His heart seemed to stop. He could not breathe.

‘Sure,’ she said at last, as if he’d merely offered her a drink, ‘I’d like that.’

They reached the swing bridge over the entrance to the West India dock. Siobhan stopped in the middle and looked out over the Thames. It was dark and the night still and sultry. A stink of waste, natural and man-made, rose off the brown waters. The tide was low and moonlight gleamed on the grey flanks of mud. Out on the river, rows of small ships were moored; lamps, red and green and yellow, glowed where lighters were still plying down on the falling tide. Someone was sculling a skiff out to a waiting barge, the oars creaking as he moved.

Siobhan gripped the rail. Will could feel the heat and the tension of her.

‘Dirty,’ she said. ‘Dirty river, filthy city. But exciting.’

His arms ached to hold her, his hands to touch.

‘You’re exciting,’ he told her. ‘You’re the most exciting girl I’ve ever met. I’ve never known anyone like you.’

‘I know.’ She was half-turned towards him now, but he could not see her face, only the gleam of her teeth as she smiled. He caught the animal force in her, knew she was tempted, that she wanted him too. He reached out to brush the soft bare skin of her arm, but she whisked away, laughing – a low laugh that set him alight.

‘I’m Siobhan O’Donaghue and I’m one on my own. There’s no one else like me,’ she said, and ran to catch up with the others.

Away to the west, lightning flickered, followed by the first warning rumble of the coming storm.

The women were sitting out on the doorsteps. The little houses were too stuffy to stay indoors, and tempers frayed if large families were on top of each other all the time. The men went up to the pub, to drink or meet for some club; the Rabbit Club, the Pigeon Society – any excuse would do. Sometimes the women went too, but more often they stayed on the doorsteps, mending, keeping an eye on the children, gossiping. Ellen heard them as she squatted on the kerb with Florrie Turner, playing fivestones or arranging the paper dolls they cut out and made into families.

‘You seen how that Maisie Johnson dresses that baby o’ hers? It’ll catch its death o’ cold. Hardly a stitch on it, poor little mite.’

‘Poor little mite, my eye! Great bonny boy he is, doing lovely. Go down with heatstroke, he would, if she dressed him up like you said.’

‘His mum’d do a bit more lovely if her old man was home more often.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Go on, don’t come that one with me. Never home, he ain’t.’

‘No more ain’t your old man, come to that.’

‘At least I know where mine is.’

‘If you’re saying what I think you are, it’s a flaming lie. Will Johnson’s gone over the Harp of Erin with the rest of the boys.’

‘Yes, and to see who, might I ask? That flighty little Irish madam, that’s who. And when he isn’t listening to her sing he’s out with her down the East Ferry Road.’

‘That’s another flaming lie an’ all. Clodagh O’Donaghue wouldn’t
let no girl o’ hers down the East Ferry Road with no one, and ’specially not with a bloke what’s married. Only fast girls go down there. Just ’cos she jilted your Jimmy, you got your knife into her.’

‘Huh. She did no such thing. He didn’t want a girl like her. And I tell you another thing, too. It don’t surprise me one little bit, the way that Will’s behaving. Always was on the wild side. I was never happy when he was walking out with my Dot. If it hadn’t been that Siobhan it’d be someone else. He only married Maisie because she was in the family way. You can say what you like, but I know what I know.’

Ellen’s ears burned. She bent over the game, avoiding Florrie’s eyes, pretending she had not heard. Her long curtain of brown hair hid her face. But as she tried to toss the pebble and pick up the next one, her hand shook and she dropped both.

‘My go,’ Florrie said.

Ellen’s attention wandered. She looked up the street to the Billinghams’ house. There was nobody outside their door. Alma was out somewhere with her latest man, while Will, Gerry and Charlie, if her overhearings were to be believed, were over in Poplar at the Harp of Erin. Maisie was inside.

‘Coming to see Tommy, Aunty Florrie?’

Florrie said nothing. Her thin hand was steady six inches above the pavement, two pebbles balanced on the back. Nimbly she tossed them up, grabbed a third from the ground and caught all three.

‘I won. Yeah, all right, Aunty Ellen.’

The novelty of the new relationship had not yet worn off. They adored Maisie’s baby, vying to be allowed to hold him, play with him or take him for walks in the rickety old pram passed down through the Johnson family since Will was a baby. He was a happy little soul, now that he had got over the collicky stage, always ready with a smile for his serious young aunts.

‘Maisie?’ Florrie stopped outside the door of number forty and rapped on it with her knuckles. ‘Maisie? Can we come in?’

There was no answer. The girls looked at each other. Two doors along, a canary in a cage on the bottom windowsill was singing its heart out. Down the other end of the street there was a yell of ‘Out!’ from the boys playing rounders.

‘She must be in,’ Ellen said. She was conscious of eyes upon her back watching to see what happened.

‘Come on,’ Florrie decided, and pushed open the door. Nobody in Trinidad Street would even think of locking a front door. Ellen followed her in.

The little house was quiet, the air stale and oppressive. The girls made their way through the little front parlour on tiptoe, subdued by the stillness. They pushed open the kitchen door and stood staring.

The back door and the window were closed. Little Tommy was asleep in his pram. By the smell of him, he was dirty. Maisie was sitting at the table, with her back to them. Her head was in her hands and she made no sign that she had heard them. Nonplussed, the two girls looked at each other again.

‘Maisie?’ Florrie stepped forward. ‘Maisie? You all right?’

No answer. Ellen went to one side of her, Florrie the other. They both put an arm round her shoulders, but whatever they said to her, they got little reaction. In the end they gave up, simply asking if they could take Tommy out. This Maisie did agree to.

The two girls manoeuvred the pram and the sleeping baby out into the street.

‘What’s up with her, then?’ Granny Hobbs asked, with a nod of the head to indicate Maisie.

‘Nothing,’ Florrie lied loyally.

‘She’s just tired. Wants a rest,’ Ellen elaborated. She turned to Florrie. ‘Let’s take him for a walk. We could go down the river.’

They marched the length of the street, defying the curious stares, but as they reached the West Ferry Road, Florrie rounded on Ellen.

‘It’s all your Will’s fault.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. It’s all your Will’s fault. Everyone’s talking about it. Poor Maisie can’t hold her head up.’

‘Florrie! I thought we was friends.’

‘I can’t be friends with someone whose brother treats my sister like that.’

‘She ought to tidy herself up a bit.’

They were still arguing when Harry found them.

‘What’s all this about, then?’

They both looked up, surprised into momentary silence. Ellen’s insides gave a funny twist, making her feel almost sick. Harry was straight in from work and he smelt of boats, a combination of tar and bilgewater and old rope. His face and neck and forearms were tanned, and his hair where it curled out from under his cap was bleached almost blond from the sun.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘It’s our Maisie,’ Florrie blurted out. ‘You should see her, Harry! She’s been crying and she don’t want to do nothing.’

‘Where’s Will?’

‘Gone up Poplar to the Harp of Erin.’

‘Ah.’ Anger filled his face, hardening his eyes.

A chilling fear took hold of Ellen. ‘Harry, it’s not –’

‘Not what? Not what I think? ’Course it is. Why else’d he be up there? I saw him the night we first went over. Couldn’t keep his eyes off of her, he couldn’t. Well, not any longer. I’m putting a stop to this.’

‘Oh, Harry, Will don’t mean it, I’m sure he don’t. Leave it be, please. We don’t want no trouble.’ She clutched at his sleeve, pleading, but he shook her off.

‘Look here, kid.’ He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes, trying to make her see his point of view. ‘There’s trouble already, and I’m going to put a stop to it. I like you, I like your family. You’re all right. But nobody treats my sister like that and gets away with it, see?’

Ellen nodded. She knew there was nothing she could do. Events had to take their course. She stood miserably watching Harry turn the corner into Trinidad Street. Tommy woke up and began to cry. Florrie grasped the handle of the pram.

‘I’m going to take him back and change him,’ she said, and flounced off after her brother. Ellen followed slowly.

The whole street seemed to know that something was up. Nobody said anything, but the air was charged with expectancy. Twilight faded imperceptibly into night, children were called in and sent to bed, kitchen chairs were fetched inside, but still some of the women hung about on the doorsteps, waiting for something to happen.

Upstairs in the back bedroom, Ellen leaned out under the sash window looking out into the back yard. Behind her, Daisy and Jack were fast asleep, but she could not even lie down. She crept out on to the top step of the stairs and listened. Mum was still downstairs, Dad was not yet in from his meeting at the Radical Club over in Cubitt Town. She slid into her parents’ room and leaned her head against the glass there, straining to see out. Fear clawed at her – fear for her brother, coming back all unsuspecting; fear for Harry, who was younger and lighter. And mixed with it was guilt. If she had not suggested going to see Maisie then all this might not have happened. Somebody, Will or Harry or probably both of them, was going to get hurt, and it was all her fault. Gnawing her knuckles, she wished desperately she could turn back time, could change it all, while slowly the minutes ticked by. She tried to pray, making bargains with God.
Let them be all right and I’ll be good for ever. I’ll even give up my place at Millwall Central, if You can just stop them
.

She saw her father coming home, clumping wearily, his hands in his pockets. Perhaps he would go out, perhaps he would stop them. She listened as downstairs her parents were talking, her mother’s voice anxious, her father’s dismissive. Any hope that Ellen had had withered away. Her dad was going to do nothing. She knew why. To him it was unimportant, a silly spat. She heard his words floating up the stairs.

‘Let ’em sort it out between themselves, silly young sods.’

That was that. It was going to happen, and there was nothing she could do but wait.

Harry waited by the swing bridge. Now that it had come to it, he was glad. It had been brewing for far too long, ever since that first night they went over to the Harp of Erin. He leaned on the rail, looking out over the river, his river. After two years’ apprenticeship up under the many bridges, down in and out of the labyrinth of docks and creeks, he knew all its moods and loved most of them. Still and calm like tonight, breezy and choppy, dark and angry, each condition had its own challenges, its own pleasures, even if it was only a warm cabin after a cold and difficult trip. He felt sorry for men like his father and Will, stuck in mindless labouring jobs on the docks. On a lighter, you were your own man, responsible for the boat and her cargo. People respected a lighterman.