Rue End Street

by Sue Reid Sexton

  ‘My God,’ he said. ‘You girls just get younger and younger.’

  This was clearly not possible but he lurched past me before I could say so.

  Another tram came past with its bell tinkling and two soldiers hanging off the back. ‘There’s one!’ they shouted as they went past waving. This time I managed not to wave back but leant against a wall and concentrated on watching the pub door in case the man who might be my dad came back out.

  It was so noisy there. Three horses and carts clattered past carrying the biggest barrels you ever saw just as something huge in the shipyards made the ground shake like an earthquake. Two men were shouting to each other from one end of the street to the other and most people were in uniforms. There were dockers too in ordinary bunnets and overalls like Mr Tait’s. Every so often the roar of some giant engine would sound from the docks or the howl of a foghorn or the clang of metal. Smoke from the houses and yards hung in the mist and pulled at my throat.

  The man did not reappear.

  Two girls about sixteen came up to the door. They had flowery overalls sticking out under their coats and a pencil line up the back of their legs which wasn’t quite straight. They stood outside whispering to each other and fiddling with their hair for a moment, then joined hands and went together into the pub. Into the pub! Maybe Mrs Strachan was wrong. Maybe it was alright to go in. Maybe I could too? There was a hurry, after all. I had to get the last train and it was already nearly dark.

  I pulled my fingers through my hair, straightened my hat and rubbed the mud from my shins.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’ It was a lady in a coat that was too small for her. It was open at the front and her blouse wasn’t buttoned properly. ‘How old are you?’ she said, and she blew smoke through fat red lips so that we were both suddenly in a cloud.

  I put my hand to my nose. She was close enough for me to see little lines of red escaping up the creases round her mouth, even through the smoke.

  ‘Go home,’ she said, while I watched her lips. ‘This is no place for nice girls.’

  ‘I’m looking for my d... dad,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ she said.

  ‘No, really,’ I said.

  ‘They say that too,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Why would they say that if it’s not true?’

  Her brow crinkled beneath a crimson scarf. She pursed her painted lips. Then she leant in even closer so I could smell her heavy perfume.

  ‘My God, you look like you’ve been through it,’ she said.

  I waited while she examined me. ‘I really am looking for my dad,’ I said. ‘I think he went in there.’ I pointed at the pub, noticing its name for the first time, The Lomond Bar.

  She stood up tall and from the side of her mouth took another draw from her cigarette, gazing at me over her hand. ‘What’s he look like?’ she said.

  I showed her the photograph.

  ‘He’s a nice looking fellah,’ she said, and she blew more smoke around me. ‘Sorry, she said, batting it away, ‘never seen him. I’ll go and ask for you, if you want. Give us that.’ She swiped the photo from my hand. ‘You wait here.’ Squeezing her cigarette out between her finger and thumb, she put the rest in her pocket and crossed the road.

  ‘Thank you!’ I said.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she called back.

  ‘Lenny Gillespie,’ I said. ‘ Or...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s my name too.’

  While I waited, the two girls came out with a couple of soldiers in uniforms I didn’t recognise. They seemed to know each other well. They laughed and chatted and walked along the street arm in arm. Arm in arm. With two soldiers. Even though they were too young to be in a pub in the first place. Mr Tait would have had something to say about that.

  As if to emphasise the point there was a crash of glass shattering and raised voices further along the street. I couldn’t see what had happened and pushed back against the wall as a man with a wheelbarrow full of giant bolts rolled past, then it was quiet again.

  Ten minutes later the lady in the crimson scarf hadn’t come back. Because of this terrible fact, an ache crept up the back of my neck and I felt sick. I was freezing cold too, still damp and starving. I felt like a ton weight but also slightly dizzy. A picture of my mum, Mavis and Rosie tucked up in bed at Carbeth came to me. It was almost blackout. Soon there would be no more trains.

  So I crossed the road and went up the steps to the pub. A great stink came towards me of dirty men of all kinds, like my dad asleep at the fire after the pub, damp and smoky and sharp and sick-making like old cheese. The roar of them all talking at once made me want to stick my fingers in my ears.

  I couldn’t see the lady anywhere.

  ‘Where’s Rita?’ someone shouted.

  ‘Don’t ask!’ came a reply, and everyone laughed, though I couldn’t see anything funny.

  ‘You know this boy in the photo?’ said the man nearest the door. He wasn’t talking to me but the old man beside him. They were grimy and their elbows were worn through and needed mending. My mum could have helped, and made some money too.

  ‘No,’ said the old man. ‘What photo is that?’ He tipped the contents of his glass down his throat.

  They all had their hats on, even though they were indoors. None of them looked even slightly like my dad.

  ‘Rita had it. This one,’ said the first man, searching along the bar. ‘It’s gone. She must have taken it with her. Some wee girl lost her dad. Not the first. Rita found her outside.’

  They didn’t notice me. I knew where the photo had gone. It was on the floor amongst the fag ends and dirt, leaning against the bottom of the bar. The old man’s filthy black boot was right up beside it, the heel hovering inches from his face, ready to slam down on top of him the next time he cleared his throat.

  I started forwards to get it, not caring who saw me.

  But suddenly I was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and swung off balance so that I fell backwards and thudded into a man.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said. ‘Not in there you don’t.

  My coat cut sharp into my throat. He clutched the back of it and tugged.

  ‘Good God, look at the size of you!’ he said. ‘You’re barely out of nappies! May the good Lord have mercy on us all.’

  I tried to scream but my throat was blocked. The men at the bar glanced over as if they saw this every day and turned back to their pints. And as I fell back down the steps, still in this man’s grip, I saw the old drinker’s boot shift round, turning its owner towards the bar for another glass.

  ‘My, but you have the devil himself inside you,’ said the voice behind me. ‘May the Lord bless you and forgive you your sins.’

  I was hauled backwards along the pavement with my arms like windmills and my feet half dragged and staggering. Then he spun me round and took me by the shoulders with hands that dug into me so hard I thought they’d meet in the middle. I stared up at him. He was a big man, but the blackout had fallen and all I could see were the whites of his eyes and a whiter collar which circled his neck like a giant smile. Somehow we were already a distance from the pub. He leant his face close down to mine so I could taste his breath and feel it damp against my eyes. His own eyes bored into mine as if he was trying to read my thoughts. There was nothing in there but sheer terror, my heart hammering like a blacksmith. His face moved away but he kept hold of my shoulders which meant my hands could only flail like useless wands at my side. Then he squeezed and shook me so hard my feet left the ground and my head jerked all over the place and I couldn’t stop it.

  He set me back on my feet and let go. As I swung about waiting for the world to stop spinning, or at least the pavement to come up and hit me, I heard him laugh.

  ‘The Lord loves you!’ he declared as if I’d won a prize. Now I saw the gentle glow of the far off pub door as it glinted off a row of teeth. ‘He loves you so much he’s sent me to this place of in
iquity to rescue you from terrible deeds. Praise the Lord and rejoice in his name. Hallelujah!’

  Glory, glory, I thought as the world spun. This surely is peculiar.

  As the dizziness left, the minister’s face took shape in the dark, well-fed and smooth beneath a cloth cap, all his clothes black, even the hat.

  ‘I ask you, oh Lord,’ he said, ‘to cleanse this young person’s soul and forgive her her sins and those she was about to commit and...’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said, finding my voice again.

  ‘Lord protect her from evil and...’

  ‘And I wasn’t about to,’ I said. Fury rose up in me as I backed away. ‘Get away from me! I’ve lost my dad,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for my dad.’ Then I shouted: ‘Dad!’ to make him think my dad was close.

  I glanced round his shoulder. The street was completely dark. The wind whistled through. I heard voices but saw nothing and no-one.

  ‘Help!’ I shouted as three sailors floated past, weaving their way through the dark.

  ‘Evening,’ muttered one, and they vanished, laughing.

  But the minister’s arms were long and he seized me by my coat again and started pulling me along. I screamed as hard as I could but he had me so tightly by the collar I could barely make a sound. Helpless. Shop doorways flickered past. The street stank like a cludgie. The pub was far behind. We crossed another road to a door, huge and dark, barely visible in the blackout. It echoed beneath his fist and my head began to pound.

  ‘Help!’ I squeaked. ‘Help!’

  A slither of light crept under the door and lit our feet, so I kicked at his legs. But he was quick and I missed. Then the light died and I couldn’t see a thing. Pitch.

  The door creaked open to complete darkness.

  ‘There you are, Mrs Brindle,’ said the minister. ‘Your light escaped beneath the door. The Lord will not be pleased, not to mention Mr Jackson, our very own ARP officer.’

  I heard Mrs Brindle mumble an apology in the dark.

  ‘I brought you a little lost lamb,’ he said. ‘Watch her. She has the devil in her.’

  He thrust me forward into the darkness and the door closed behind me.

  Chapter 24

  My screams echoed round me like in the cave at Rothesay and it was pitch black dark. Mrs Brindle tried to grab me, but lashing out with my arms I kept her away.

  ‘Come here, child, and stop that,’ she said. ‘We’re only trying to save you!’

  I felt for the back of the door and ran my hands over it for a handle, but there were only screws and nuts and sharp things sticking out.

  ‘Get away from me!’ I shouted and screamed until my throat was ragged and sore.

  ‘Alright, my dear,’ she said quietly when I’d stopped. ‘That’s enough. There’s no need to make such a noise.’

  A match shooshed to life and the yellow glow of a candle swam across the door throwing my shadow up against it. I yanked at the handle, a huge iron loop beside a giant keyhole.

  ‘It’s locked,’ she said. She set the candle on a long dark cabinet. Its light grew still. Her face was scored with deep wrinkles and she was tall in a long white apron.

  I kicked the bottom of the door. ‘Help!’ I shouted.

  ‘Lord preserve me,’ she muttered from behind. ‘You might as well stop that. No-one will hear you and it’s dinner time anyway. You’ll no doubt be hungry.’

  ‘Help!’ I shouted.

  ‘You can join us when you’re ready,’ she said. She lifted the candle and started down some stairs, leaving me in the darkness. ‘God be with you.’ Then I heard her mutter to herself: ‘Dear Lord, I’ll never complain about the good reverend again, if you just deliver me from this little devil.’ Her shadow played on the walls then faded.

  For a second I wondered if she was right and there was a devil inside me. I certainly wanted to kill her and the minister.

  I held onto the bannister at the top of some stairs and chewed my fingers. A light glowed at the bottom.

  ‘I’m not going down there,’ I yelled. A long silence followed, then I heard the murmur of voices. I went back to the door and tugged again and shouted through but nobody came.

  After a few minutes I smelled onions, and then heard what sounded like chairs being drawn over a floor. There was a silence, then Mrs Brindle talking, then a loud ‘Amen’ followed by the clatter of cutlery off dinner plates. It was dark there all by myself, and chilly with the draught under the big door all the time. I moved as far from it as I could and sat on the cold stone of the top step. Hunger pains shot through my stomach and it rumbled painfully. I felt for the photo in my pocket, but of course it wasn’t there, and I cursed myself for coming, crying furious tears. How stupid I was.

  I longed for Mr Tait and remembered Mr Tulloch saying how you couldn’t do anything without a good breakfast. All I’d eaten was carrots. I shuffled down a step, and then another, and then another. I was shivering with cold and hunger, and if I couldn’t get out perhaps I could at least get some food, if they’d give me some. I was halfway down when I smelled pork, which I loved and which Mr Tait loved too. At the bottom I stood up and wiped my nose and eyes with my sleeve, and waited for them to notice me.

  There were trestle tables along which sat two lines of children, their faces turned towards me, all with identical expressions of interest but no surprise, as if seeing a twelve-year-old girl snivelling and covered in cuts and gentian violet was absolutely normal.

  Mrs Brindle, who was at the head of the table, stood up. ‘Now children, we shall say a special grace tonight and remember our little sister here.’

  The children seemed tired, blank faces with mouths hanging open. We all eyed the plates on the table, each one with two fat little sausages.

  ‘Ready?’ said Mrs Brindle.

  No-one answered.

  ‘Dear Jesus,’ they began, ‘our friend and saviour, please look after our little sister in this her hour of need.’

  ‘The Lord can’t hear you, children,’ said Mrs Brindle. ‘Louder!’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I said, trembling.

  ‘Brother James, stop crying.’ Mrs Brindle’s lungs were strong. She banged her hand off the table and there was silence. ‘You should be happy. Another lost soul is being saved!’

  Brother James sat at the far end of a bench with a big square mouth. He was younger than Mavis and Rosie and his obvious terror took my breath away, what was left of it. Poor little mite. Beside him was a face I recognised, the boy with the stolen rolls. He winked at me without changing his expression, then lowered his head in prayer.

  ‘For the wonders of God’s bounty,’ said Mrs Brindle waving her arm to indicate they should follow, ‘may we all be truly grateful.’

  While they prayed, Mrs Brindle laid her hand gently across the small of my back and I said a silent prayer of my own. ‘Dear God. I don’t know how I got into this mess. I only meant to find my dad, but now that I’m in it I need some help please, if you’re not too busy. I don’t believe these people are real Christians because real Christians are kind like Mr Tait and these people are...’ I was so scared I didn’t know what they were. ‘Dear God,’ I whispered, and then out loud, without really meaning to I said. ‘Let me out of here, please.’

  There was an immediate surge in the prayers and Mrs Brindle put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulders.

  ‘Please God,’ I whispered to myself, closing my eyes. ‘I promise I’ll never fight anyone ever again, not even Ella or George, please, and I promise to believe in you too.’

  I waited but nothing happened. So I opened my eyes and waited for the praying to stop. They’d have to soon or their sausages would be cold.

  I noticed the sausages were small with mashed potato and more carrots. My stomach rumbled. A row of cox’s oranges, which are actually apples, were lined up down the middle of the table. I closed my eyes, lowered my head and put my hands together.

  ‘For what they are about to receive,’ I said to myself, ‘may th
ey be truly generous and give me some too.’

  The prayers came to a sudden halt. I opened my eyes. Mrs Brindle had her hand up as if she was stopping the traffic.

  ‘Children,’ she said, and she began to unwind my scarf as if I was five. ‘Our prayers are answered. You may eat and feel happy that the Lord has listened.’ There was a hum of approval followed by enthusiastic clanks of cutlery. ‘Sweet child,’ she said to me, ‘welcome to our family of rescued children.’

  I nearly said, ‘I don’t need rescued. I need my dad,’ but that would have been useless. She wasn’t a lady to listen, I could tell. So I gritted my teeth and smiled. It was difficult not to just stare at the sausages.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

  She indicated I should take off my coat and then shoved me towards a chair close to hers at the table.

  ‘Sit,’ she said. ‘Brother Andrew, more soup please.’

  Brother Andrew, who was the roll thief, threw me a disgruntled look, scooped three forkfuls of mashed tattie into his mouth and pushed back his chair.

  When it arrived, the soup was as delicious as I’d hoped, though there wasn’t much of it. Unfortunately the second course was one little sausage, only one for me, an even smaller carrot (yet more carrots), the teensiest daud of mashed tattie and not a speck of butter, obviously, being war-time. My apple was so sharp it made my eyes water. All in, I could have eaten three times as much.

  No-one uttered a single solitary lonely tiny little word. Mrs Brindle sat down beside me at the end of the table and ate almost as swiftly as Brother Andrew, but with less slurping. I ought to have been home helping my mum, and not chasing my stupid dad or getting into bother with Jeannie and wee Bobby and bad men in Greenock. This was my punishment. It’s not like I wasn’t warned.

  Then suddenly I heard Mr Tait in my head. ‘I’m sure you were doing your best, Lenny,’ he said, ‘and the benefit of hindsight is a wonderful thing.’ I imagined him frowning at Mrs Brindle.

  ‘Was I?’ I said out loud.

  Andrew tittered. I drank my cup of water and blushed. First sign of madness, talking to yourself, so my gran always said.