But he wouldn’t, Annie sighed, staring at herself in the dressing-table mirror. She was too thin, too plain, for the likes of Billy Sullivan. He wouldn’t be interested in her, she told herself. He had only asked after her out of good manners. Maybe if she cut her hair or changed it so that she didn’t look so severe he just might ask her to walk out with him . . . The way she looked now would probably frighten off any young eligible bachelor, she had to admit.
On Friday evening Billy sat with his long-time friend Danny in the public bar of the Kings Arms, and once again he broached the subject he had held close to his heart for a long time.
‘I reckon I’ll never get enough money tergevver to even rent a place, Danny, but I’ve ’ad a word wiv Farvver Murphy an’ ’e reckons I should write ter the church people. ’E said if I put me ideas down on paper ’e’ll send a letter as well an’ it jus’ might work. What ’ave I got ter lose?’
Danny sipped his pint thoughtfully. ‘Carrie was tellin’ me that bit o’ land next ter the cafe is up fer sale. It was a pity yer never managed ter rent it. That was a good spot fer a gym.’
Billy nodded. ‘I tried ter raise the money but nobody would cough up. It was a pity. I ’ad a few lads lined up who were gonna ’elp do the work, as yer know.’
Danny sat watching the comings and goings in the pub as he listened to his old friend expounding his dream and the germ of an idea started to form in his head. He would talk with his father, he decided. He might be able to give him the information he needed.
‘’Ow’s the young lady?’ Billy asked as he put down his glass and wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand.
‘Iris is fine. We’re lookin’ ter get married next year,’ Danny told him.
‘I was finkin’ o’ settlin’ down meself soon,’ Billy remarked, toying self-consciously with his beer glass.
Danny smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve ’eard that often enough, Billy,’ he replied. ‘I reckon you’ll be sayin’ that when yer walkin’ frew the park wiv yer walkin’ stick.’
‘Don’t yer be so sure,’ Billy countered quickly. ‘I’m finkin’ of askin’ Annie McCafferty ter walk out wiv me.’
‘Yer could ’ave bin doin’ that now if yer’d listened ter Carrie. She could ’ave made the right introductions,’ Danny remarked.
‘I’m serious, Danny. I’m finkin’ o’ goin’ over ter the clinic where Annie works an’ askin’ ’er.’
‘That’s gonna be a bit difficult, ain’t it?’ Danny queried. ‘Yer’ll ’ave ter tell ’em yer left the baby be’ind an’ yer want some advice.’
Billy took another sip from his pint of porter and then suddenly brought his fist down on the table. ‘Yer’ve give me an idea,’ he said with a sly glint in his eye.
Danny had listened to Billy’s schemes often enough and he felt that more than a few of them had verged on the crazy. ‘What yer got in that mind of yours?’ he asked grinning.
Billy shook his head, the ghost of a smile showing in the corner of his mouth. ‘Just an idea. I gotta fink about it though,’ he replied.
The public bar had become packed on that Friday evening and the regular customers chatted together in small groups or sat at the iron tables, one or two drinking alone. Florrie Axford was in the company of Maisie Dougall and Maggie Jones, while Harold Temple sat on his own staring into his full glass of beer, his unlit pipe held in his hand. In one corner a couple sat at a table and chatted together, the man nodding his head often as the woman seemed to be labouring a point.
‘Well, it’s a good fing yer was talkin’ ter yerself that day, Bill, or yer’d be laid out on a slab by now,’ Alice Johnson told him. ‘I was ready ter swing fer yer. In fact I ’ad that carver all ready ter finish yer. Just remember what I said. If I ever catch yer playin’ around, yer’ll be done for.’
Broomhead nodded. He had spent his whole life avoiding the very situation he now found himself in and he was not feeling too pleased. It had been very difficult calming her down that day in the shed, he recalled with a shudder. At first she had waved the knife around and made threatening gestures with it, and only after much abject pleading had she finally laid down her weapon. Broomhead had realised that he was very lucky not to end up mutilated, and in his gratitude he had asked Alice to take the next Friday evening off from her barmaid duties and go to the Kings Arms with him. It had become a regular arrangement for the last couple of months and still he had not managed to worm his way back into her bed. Alice had been very firm about that and she was constantly reminding him that there were certain things he would have to agree to if he was going to become her lover again.
He had complied, and now he called in on her for a cup of tea every evening before returning home, which was difficult for him at times. He had to get his hair cut regularly and keep his boots clean, and he had been required to buy himself a new trilby to replace his old faithful one. He had had to promise Alice too that he would make sure his horse was well fed and always properly groomed. Broomhead had kept his word, and he took exception to her accusing him of starving the nag. He always made sure it got its oats - which was more than could be said for him - but it was a waste of time using the curry-comb and brush on that bag of bones, he grumbled to himself.
All week Broomhead had been agonising over what he should do regarding Alice. Every Friday night he had to listen while she reminded him about how near he had come to a bad end that day in the shed, and he had come to the conclusion that unfortunately the woman he had lost his freedom to was completely mad and had no intention of ever letting him into her bedroom again. Enough was enough, he told himself, and as he sat nodding dutifully to her in the public bar of the Kings Arms his mind was racing. He would get rid of her once and for all, he vowed. He had had to bend to her will after she held the carver over his head but his time would come, surely it must. There could be an accident. He could run her over if he ever saw her in the street, but then his horse would not go fast enough to run anyone over. No, he would have to think of something else. He could rake out his old trilby, forget to clean his boots and let his hair grow long again, but that would only appear as though he wasn’t interested in her anymore, which would mean having to watch his back all the time in case she came at him with the cleaver.
‘I’ll ’ave the same again,’ Alice said, interrupting his thoughts as she pushed her empty glass towards him.
Broomhead dutifully walked over to the counter, and as he stood waiting to be served he became aware that he was being stared at.
‘I thought I reco’nised yer. Don’t yer remember me?’
Broomhead looked down at the diminutive character wearing a red scarf and a check cap and shook his head. ‘Nah, I don’t,’ he replied.
The man gave him a toothless grin and rolled his shoulders. ‘I’m Bert Gibson. Yer mus’ remember me,’ he persisted.
‘Sorry, I don’t,’ the totter said irritably.
‘Yer remember. Yer took our ole pianer away. I ’elped yer out wiv it. Bloody glad ter get rid of it, ter tell yer the trufe. Never bin played since our Rene got married. She never comes round now. I don’t fink that whoreson of an ’usband likes ’er comin’ round ter see us. I dunno what we done ter make ’im keep ’er away, I’m sure I don’t.’
Broomhead tried desperately to catch the barman’s eye, fearing that he had become fair game for all the mentally unbalanced people in the area.
‘Rene’s a lovely gel, but she won’t stand up fer ’erself,’ the little character went on. ‘She should tell ’im straight she’s entitled ter see ’er family once in a while. After all, it ain’t askin’ too much, is it?’
‘What ain’t?’ Broomhead asked, wishing the barman would look his way.
The little man rolled his shoulders and poked out his chin as though he was being slowly strangled by the tightly knotted scarf around his scrawny neck. ‘Why, ’er tellin’ ’im straight,’ he said. ‘Yer gotta stand up fer yerself or yer’ll be put on. That’s my motto. Do a
s yer done by. Stick up fer yerself. Don’t let ’em treat yer like a doormat. I wouldn’t stan’ fer it. That’s bloody right.’
Broomhead finally caught the barman’s eye and as he gave his order a big woman walked up to the counter and prodded the little man.
‘Oi, you, are yer gonna stan’ talkin’ all night? I’m still waitin’ fer me drink. You was ’ere before ’im,’ she said in a loud voice, pointing towards Broomhead.
‘Sorry, dear. This is the man who took our pianer,’ he answered meekly.
‘What d’yer want me ter do, ask fer it back?’ the woman said sharply, looking the totter up and down.
‘Yer should ’ave kept yer pianer an’ got rid of ’er,’ Broomhead whispered to the little character as he picked up the glasses and walked away from the counter.
In another corner of the public bar Maudie Mycroft sat with her husband Ernest, feeling happier than she had done for some time. He had promised her he would seriously consider leaving the British Communist Party if she would cut down her church commitments. It was a fair bargain, she thought. She had been very busy at the church functions of late, and now that there was another new vicar coming soon she felt it was time to reconsider her position. The Monday meetings were very nice. There was always something going on, and the tea and biscuits afterwards gave her the chance to chat with everyone there. Tuesdays could be cut out though. The sewing circle seemed obsessed with making patchwork quilts and she had four of them already. But then if she cut out Tuesdays she would not get the opportunity to meet Mrs Duckworth and that nice Miss Henshaw from Carter Street. Wednesday could be considered. There was only the church fund committee. The only problem there was that they might think she did not care what happened to the establishment if she didn’t go along. What about Thursday? Maudie asked herself. No, she couldn’t give up choir practice. Besides, the vicar always came along on Thursday evenings and conducted prayers. Friday was her day off and Sunday was for worship so that left only Saturday. But how could she face the rest of the women if she did not help them with the jumble sales and the other fund-raising events they organised?
Maudie suddenly felt less happy but Ernest was secretly smiling to himself as he sat beside her drinking his pint of ale. There was as much chance of Maudie giving up her church commitments as there was of him getting his old friend Hymie Goldberg to eat a bacon sandwich. No, it was a good bargain, he thought.
Time was called and as the customers trooped out of the pub Broomhead Smith was feeling courageous. The drinks had taken effect and he had been angered by the big woman’s nagging at her inoffensive little husband. Alice had been nagging at him all evening too and he had suddenly lost all desire to see her bedroom anyway. He had stood her domineering ways for weeks now and it was time he stood up for himself, he thought as she took his arm outside the pub.
‘I was talkin’ ter that little feller at the counter, Alice. Did yer see ’im?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, that was Tommy Blackwell. ’E’s a bit of a cowson, by all accounts,’ she replied. ‘Tommy’s ole woman’s frightened ter move wivout ’is say-so. Bloody size of ’er an’ all. Mind yer though, ’e’s bin a bit of a rogue in ’is time. ’E used ter do a bit o’ boxin’, an’ I ’eard ’e done time fer nickin’ from the docks. Size ain’t everyfing.’
Broomhead grunted his reply as they walked along Page Street. He was preparing himself for a heart-to-heart talk. He would merely say that he was going to end their relationship, such as it was, and if she didn’t like it . . . well, she could do her worst. He would have to remind her first though, that the policeman who stopped him when he was running away from her that Saturday had asked him for her name and address, and she should take that into consideration if she decided to come looking for him with a carving knife.
‘I was talkin’ ter Mrs Knight while yer was up the counter,’ Alice said suddenly. ‘She was sayin’ one of the women in ’er turnin’ got ’er froat cut last night. ’Er ole man done it. She said they ain’t caught ’im yet, so the local bobby told ’er. Went stark ravin’ mad ’e did. The copper told ’er ter make sure she puts the bolt on ’er door at night in case ’e comes back an’ decides ter cut ovver women up.’
Broomhead mumbled a reply, still preoccupied with what he was going to say, and as they reached Alice’s door he took a deep breath. ‘Look, luv ,’ he began, ‘I know yer not one ter get upset very easy but I’m worried about fings. I fink we should upset very easy but I’m worried about fings. I fink we should seriously consider what’s bin ’appenin’ an’ try ter sort fings out.’
Alice smiled at him, the first time she had smiled in that fashion for weeks, he noted.
‘Bill Smith, yer a very nice man. Fancy yer finkin’ about me bein’ worried by that maniac at large. C’mon,’ she said, taking him by the arm and almost dragging him through the front door.
Broomhead sighed as he allowed himself to be pushed into her cosy parlour. The fire was burning low in the grate and the curtains were tightly drawn against the chilly night. Oh, well. There’s another day tomorrow, he told himself.
Chapter Sixteen
Carrie had been preoccupied with the building work going on at the dining rooms, and serving behind the counter, ordering supplies, keeping the books in order and caring for her husband and Rachel left her little time for anything else, but occasionally she would think about Annie McCafferty and wonder how she was getting on at the clinic. Since that one visit Annie had not put in an appearance, and Carrie wondered if the young Irishwoman had met up with Billy Sullivan. She had been interested enough to ask about him and Carrie felt that after the sad time she must have experienced over in Dublin Annie deserved to find some happiness. Billy was a good young man, and he had once shown an interest in Carrie, though that was all in the past. She had considered him forward then and only interested in her body, but she was old enough now to realise that he was probably just like all other young men finding their feet. Billy had only walked out with her on that one occasion and he had tried his luck as they lingered near the river, she remembered, smiling to herself. He had been embarrassed by her angry reaction as they walked back home, but although he had never asked her out again after that they had remained friends.
Carrie’s busy life was making her feel tired and jaded, and she found herself snapping at her husband for the least little thing. Fred was turned fifty now and his hair had gone completely grey. He had always been given to nodding off at the fireside for half an hour or so after a busy day but lately he had been sleeping for the best part of the evening and then going to bed early. Carrie was left alone with her thoughts most evenings and after the chores were done she would sit by the fire with a cup of tea and think about where her life was going. She was nearing her thirty-fourth birthday and already she could see the odd line or two showing around her eyes when she studied her face in the mirror. She had given up worrying about becoming pregnant again, however. Fred was very rarely awake when she got into bed and on the odd occasion he did show any interest in her as a woman he would fail to satisfy her needs. She had fretted over her failure to excite and arouse him at first, but all the hard work and the worry of the business had taken their toll and left her feeling tired and empty.
Sometimes she would sit remembering her first lover, Tommy Allen, who had now married and become a father. Sometimes she would sit staring into the glowing coals and fantasise. Don Jacobs, the middle-aged dockers’ leader, was always very talkative and forthcoming with her. He was a handsome man with considerable charm, and he had parted from his wife through her infidelity, so word had it. Fred had often become moody and surly through her spending time in Don’s company when he came into the cafe, and he suspected that the union leader was eager to get her into his bed. Carrie had rowed with Fred over his jealousy, but on her lonely nights she wondered if there was an element of truth in what he feared, and she wondered what it would be like to have Don Jacobs as a lover.
Billy Sullivan had made up his mind that
he was going to settle down and he told his mother as much over the tea table. ‘Ma, I’m gonna get married,’ he suddenly announced.
Sadie nodded and carried on re-sealing the margarine. Daniel her husband looked over his evening paper and wondered whether Billy had gone out of his mind, while Billy’s younger brother Joe decided that he definitely had. ‘Yer gotta get yerself a woman first, yer silly git,’ he said quickly.
Sadie picked up the bread knife and pointed it at Joe in a threatening manner. ‘What ’ave I told yer about blasphemin’ round the food table?’ she growled at him.
Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 22