Trinidad Street (9 page)

He tried to assess his chances. Will was older than him, and heavier, but Harry had surprise on his side, and that counted for a lot. It all depended on who was with him. If Will was actually with Siobhan, then he’d get him, give him something to really remember. But he doubted if that would be the case. The O’Donaghues wouldn’t let them walk back together. If Will was with the O’Donaghues, then it was going to be tricky, for they might well come in on Will’s side to defend Siobhan’s honour. If he was just with Gerry and Charlie, it was all right. Gerry and Charlie would keep out of it and see there was a fair fight. If they were all together in a bunch, it might be a big fight, for Gerry and Charlie would come in with him, seeing as they were his cousins. He hunched his shoulders and felt the strength in his arms. Two years of helping control wooden barges laden with upwards of seventy tons of cargo, using nothing but oars, had developed him beyond his years, and his time as leader of the Trinidad Street gang had sharpened his appetite for a fight. He was looking forward to taking on Will Johnson.

Drunks rolled homewards over the bridge, weaving through gangs of young men and strolling prostitutes. Harry ignored them all. He
kept his mind on Will and Siobhan and Maisie, fuelling his anger. He heard them coming. There were a lot of them, walking home together in a large loose bunch, relaxed from a good night out, half drunk, laughing and calling out to each other as they went along. They were behaving decently, since they had a girl with them, not like a gang of men out on their own. None of them took any notice of him, standing still and silent in the dark. As they passed under the street light he picked them out. His cousins, Pat and Declan O’Donaghue with Siobhan between them holding on to their arms, Brian with a couple of the older men. And in the rear, with his hands in his pockets, by himself, Will.

Harry’s hands curled into fists. Perfect. He could jump him and have him on the floor before he knew what was happening. But that was not the way he planned it. Will had to know exactly what was happening, and why. He waited until Will had gone past, then stepped out of the shadows.

‘Will! Will Johnson. I want a word with you.’

Will stopped and turned. Harry saw recognition dawn in his face, surprise, the start of understanding.

‘Do you now? What makes you think I want to talk to you?’

Will’s voice was harsh and Harry could tell that he was in a dangerous mood, but decided he was not going to let that stop him.

‘You been playing away from home,’ Harry said, attacking with his moral supremacy. ‘You been upsetting my sister. I don’t like that.’

‘Yeah?’ Will was unmoved. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

In the background, Harry sensed the others turning back and coming to Will’s defence.

‘Leave it, leave it. This is family business,’ Gerry called out.

There was a growl of understanding.

He moved fast then, getting in two before Will could react. Will had been drinking, while Harry was stone-cold sober. Will rolled with the blows, but came back. He was spoiling for a fight. Harry took one on his arm, another on his shoulder. His fist found Will’s cheek, then a crashing blow he did not see coming slammed into the side of his head, making his skull ring. He staggered. Behind him and around him, there were shouts and jeers. He fended off the pounding while his sight cleared.

‘Had enough, boy?’

Will’s face leered at him, lips stretched in a mirthless grin. Harry lunged forward, taking him off guard. His knuckles crunched right into the smiling mouth, grating on the teeth. With a spurt of fierce pleasure he followed with one to the ear and dodged back, laughing as
Will landed harmless swipes to his shoulders. That was it, he had it, he had the measure of it. Dart in, leap back. He had speed and agility. Will couldn’t follow him. The cheers rang round.

One eye was blurred and there was a drumming in his head, a draining pain in his left arm that made it agony to lift. But Will was failing, his punches were going wild. Hardly thinking, Harry worked on the old tricks, his body remembering fights gone by. He backed down, ducking his head. Will came forward, a shambling mass of frustrated anger, Harry darted in, up. One feeble hit with his left, then a splintering punch with his right, dead on the side of the jaw. Will’s head snapped back; he staggered, crumpled at the knees and collapsed. Harry stood over him, chest heaving, heart pounding, the breath rasping into his lungs. For a moment he did not feel the pain.

‘Remember that, you bastard,’ he said. The words came with difficulty. His mouth was not working properly.

Will said nothing. He got slowly to his feet. The others were closing in, holding him up. Harry felt hands on his arms, heard voices close to his ears.

‘Well done, mate.’

‘Come on now, you got him.’

‘He won’t forget that in a hurry.’

He was borne along in a daze of pain, riding on triumph. No, Will would not forget that in a hurry.

There was a new respect for Harry in the street after that. He felt it as he hobbled to work, his eye closed and swollen, his muscles stiff, his bruises aching with every step. He saw it in people’s eyes, heard it in the way they spoke to him. He had battled for his sister. He had stood up for his family. He had passed the last hurdle into manhood.

Only when he met Ellen Johnson did he feel a jolt of regret. She was sitting on her front doorstep, reading a book. She looked up as he passed, with such reproach in her hazel eyes that he had to stop.

‘’Lo, Ellen,’ he said.

She bit her lip. At first he thought she was not going to speak to him.

‘You never had to do it,’ she blurted out.

‘I did, Ellen. I had to stop him.’

She looked down at her book again. ‘I don’t like people getting hurt,’ she said.

‘It was the only way.’

She slammed the book shut and jumped up, tears in her eyes.

‘I hate you, Harry Turner. You’re a big bully,’ she shouted, and whisked indoors, banging the door behind her.

Harry stood for a moment staring at the worn brown paint. Maisie had been just the same. She had railed at him for hurting Will. He shrugged and set off for work. Women!

‘
HE’D BETTER BLOOMING
well get himself crowned this time,’ Martha Johnson said.

‘You can’t have appendicitis twice,’ Ellen told her. She paused in her task of spreading margarine on the bread her mother was slicing. ‘Is that all right?’

Martha looked. ‘Bit too thick. Scrape some off or there won’t be enough to go round. All this food! Be dreadful if it all went to waste. Appendicitis. Nobody ever had that when I was a kid.’

‘P’raps only kings get it,’ Daisy suggested.

All three surveyed the loaves, the ham, the margarine. The Johnson household was in charge of sandwich making for the coronation party. Other families were providing pork pies, beef pies, pickles, buns, jellied eels. Whisky, gin, beer, ginger beer and lemonade were lined up. The whole street had been saving up for the party for weeks. In the Johnson household, like many others, it had not been easy. With Tom no longer a preference man and up against Alf Grant’s prejudice, they all had to take jobs, even the children, to get the money together. But this morning all the effort to put their share towards the party seemed worthwhile. Everything had been thought of. Gerry had come up with yards of red, white and blue ribbon for everyone to trim their hats with, windows and mantelpieces were decorated with Union Jacks and pictures of the new King and Queen cut out of the newspapers. A couple of the men were organizing races for the children, with sweets for prizes, and in the evening there was going to be dancing. There was something for everyone.

The last sandwich was cut and put on to a plate. Martha looked at the piles with satisfaction.

‘Well done, you girls. Damp a couple of tea-cloths and put ’em over the top to keep ’em fresh. Damp, mind, not wringing wet. Then you can go and get changed. And don’t rush about,’ she added, as they leapt to do as they were asked; ‘we got a long day ahead of us.’

Martha was pregnant again after a gap of several years. She hoped
she would carry this one, but at forty-three the strain was telling on her.

The girls ignored her warning. A wash to get the food off their hands, then they rushed upstairs to get into their new dresses, acquired after great deliberation from second-hand stalls in the market. Daisy’s was yellow taffeta, faded, thin, and a lot less full in the skirt than when they bought it, since Martha had had to take torn sections out and regather it, but still a party dress. Some child in the West End had once worn it with layers of petticoats and black patent leather shoes. Daisy had to make do with her ordinary boots, but still she loved the dress with a single-minded passion. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned.

Ellen took her dress down from the hooks behind the door. It was not as bright and partyish as Daisy’s, but it was something even better, it was her first real grown-up gown with a skirt right down to the floor, as befitted someone who was now fourteen years old. She slid it over her head, got Daisy to do up the dozens of tiny buttons down the back, smoothed the blue sprigged poplin over her body. Her mother had taken it in, taken it up, and now it fitted perfectly, showing her high breasts and neat waist. She puffed out the full tops of the sleeves, twirled round so the skirt flared out. It was beautiful. She tied red, white and blue ribbons in her sister’s hair and sent her off to show their mother, then set about the difficult task of pinning her own hair up on top. She had been practising this in secret for weeks. The result was nearly as good as she hoped for. She surveyed the effect in the mirror in her parents’ room. A young woman stared back at her, face solemn, eyes bright with suppressed excitement. She gazed for a long time, trying to make her mind up – was this a pretty young woman, one the boys would want to dance with? Slowly a smile lifted the corners of her lips, spread over her face and reached the hazel eyes. She laughed out loud. Yes, she was pretty. And she was going to a party. She spun round and ran downstairs.

The men were taking furniture out into the street. Her father stopped in the parlour, two wooden chairs in his arms.

‘Who’s this come to visit us?’ he asked. ‘Blimey, it’s Ellen! I shall have to watch it now, there’ll be queues of lads at the door.’

Ellen blushed. Her father very rarely joked like this. He was a serious man, her dad, with his union work and his dream of a better life, not one to tease his daughter. She hardly knew how to take it.

‘Is it all right?’ she asked.

Martha came in from the kitchen. ‘Turn round,’ she said, and as
Ellen turned, ‘Yes, very nice. Lovely. Come up a treat, that dress has.’

Jack came running in to find the parlour blocked with people. He glanced at Ellen.

‘You look stupid,’ he said, and went to fetch another chair.

Martha gave him a playful cuff round the head. The group broke up, laughing. Ellen lingered by the window, looking out. The chairs and tables were being set out at one end of the street, leaving space for the races at the other. Already people were beginning to gather. Old folk were sitting watching and telling everyone what to do, children were racing around shrieking, some of the girls, now that the food preparation was done, were coming out and eyeing each other’s finery. Ellen saw Florrie Turner emerge carrying her little sister. She took a deep breath and went out.

The races started about midday, when everyone had finally assembled. There was running, skipping, three-legged, relays. Jack won the boys’ running, two small O’Donaghues the wheelbarrow, Ida Turner dragged little Tommy to victory in the toddlers’ race. There were yells of triumph, tears of disappointment. Children in red, white and blue ribbons ran about clutching sticky bags of boiled sweets, their cheeks bulging. Ellen watched and cheered and clapped, glad to be out of it. Races were for kids. She was a grown-up now and she did not have to be subjected to the humiliation of coming last.

But the beer was being passed around and everyone was getting excited.

‘Mums’ race!’ somebody yelled. ‘Let’s have a mums ‘race!’

The cry was taken up. Mothers old and young were shoved into line, protesting. But once started, they ran with a will. Alma lumbered over the winning line just in front.

‘Won by a tit,’ joked some racing expert.

There was a boys’ tug-of-war, then it was the men’s turn. Sleeves rolled up, caps on the backs of their heads, brawny dockers and labourers and lightermen heaved and sweated, their boots skidding on the cobbles. The women yelled encouragement, the children jumped up and down screaming. Ellen abandoned her new dignity and shrieked with the rest. Her father and brother, Harry and the O’Donaghues were all on one side with half a dozen others. Shoulder to shoulder they pulled, their faces contorted with effort. Pat’s foot slipped, he fell and took two others with him, the whole team was dragged forward. Their supporters groaned and jeered.

‘Get up, get up! Pull!’ Ellen yelled. ‘Pull, Harry!’

They struggled up, made a desperate effort and regained the lost
ground just in time. The spectators reached fever pitch. Frightened babies screamed. Inch by inch the Johnsons’ team crept back, dragging their rivals with them. For minutes it hung in the balance, then the others seemed to tire. One of them slipped and they were heaved over the line, everyone ending in a heap on the road.

The victors were swamped with ecstatic supporters, the vanquished helped to their feet and led to the beer table. In the mêlée, Ellen saw Maisie fling her arms round Will and the pair of them hug each other, her mum kissing her dad, the O’Donaghues surrounded by family and girlfriends. Pushed this way and that by the celebrating crowd, she found the person she was seeking. People were clapping Harry on the back and congratulating him. She made to join them, but then stopped short, for there was Siobhan O’Donaghue by his side, and she was looking up into his face. A surge of jealousy, sick and bitter, possessed her. Siobhan was pretty, Siobhan could sing, Siobhan had all the boys after her. Ellen stood fixed to the spot, jostled by rowdy neighbours, staring at them. She could not tear her eyes away. Siobhan was smiling up at him. It was not a smile such as family or friends might exchange, but Ellen recognized it. It was a teasing smile, charged with invitation, but still holding back. Ellen knew, with an instinct that came with her developing body, that few men would be able to resist it. When Siobhan looked at them like that, they were hooked.