The West Ferry Road was still busy. Buses filled with homeward-bound workers, brightly painted vans, huge heavy drays and carts of every size and description from hand barrows to flat waggons choked the roadway. On the pavement men and women heading home from factories and foundries and repair yards jostled with children scampering along on errands and street sellers shouting their wares.
‘Oranges, who will buy my fresh oranges?’
‘Chestnuts, chestnuts, all lovely and hot!’
Will ignored them with difficulty because he was hungry now that he was out in the air. Head down, shoulders hunched against the raw cold, he plodded along, matching his stride to his father’s. He wondered what was for tea, hoped it was a bit of fried fish. It was some time before it struck him that his old man was very quiet.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
He remembered then, in a rush, Alf Grant coming up to him at the end of the day, taking him off to the office.
‘Come on, Dad, something’s biting you. What did the gov’nor want?’
There was a silence for the length of half a block. Will wondered whether his father had not heard him, or if he was just not answering.
‘He gave me the sack.’ His tone was so matter-of-fact that it took a moment or two for the words to sink in. It was terrible. His dad was a preference man, called on first after the permanents for any job that was going. Their household was always fairly certain of something coming in each week, whereas the others, the casuals, never knew whether they would get work or not.
‘What? They never give you the sack for sticking up for me and Pat?’
‘That was just the excuse.’
‘Bloody hell, Dad. I never thought – Christ, what can I say? I’m sorry.’
His father shrugged. ‘It weren’t you and Pat, lad. Like I said, that was just an excuse. It’s been on the cards for a long time. They don’t like me. I make things too uncomfortable for them.’
‘It’s bloody unfair,’ Will said.
‘The whole system’s bloody unfair, son. Bosses in their big houses sitting on their arses making money out of the sweat of the workers is unfair. But don’t you worry, it ain’t the end of the world. I’ll go casual. And I won’t stop making things uncomfortable for them, neither. One of these days they’ll have to have a proper reason for sacking a man. They won’t be able to throw him out just because his face don’t fit. They’ll have to prove he’s no good at the job.’
Will agreed, fired with the idea of working with his father to right all these wrongs. When his father spoke like this, he saw great armies of working men rising up to make a new world, a fairer world, where the poor got their just deserts: decent homes, warm clothes, doctoring when they were sick; a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work. When his father spoke, it was more than just a dream, it was a goal within reach. He saw himself at the head of the army, waving a banner, leading them to victory.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘They’ll be licking our boots one day, begging us to work.’
Then he saw the girl, and all thought of improving the world went right out of his head.
She was standing on the street corner, shawl over her head, bundle in her hand, staring up at the street sign, bewilderment showing in every line of her body. Fresh off the boat, Will decided, his predatory interest stirring. Newly arrived and easy game. He quickened his stride, a spring in his step, and stopped in front of her.
‘You lost, darling? Can I show you the way?’
Wary eyes looked up at him. Blue, he saw by the smeary light of the street lamp. Blue as a summer sky and fringed with great dark lashes. Cherry-sweet mouth. Round little face, pale with a weariness that tugged at his heart. He wanted to take her in his arms right there. He smiled down, showing his strong unblemished teeth.
She looked him up and down, rather as a mouse might size up a cat, and shifted from foot to foot, ready to make off. Clearly she did not trust him.
‘You can tell me the way to where I’m going,’ she said.
The soft brogue confirmed his first guess, but the carefully worded reply disappointed him in his second. She might be a bogtrotter but she was not completely green. Will tried a different approach.
‘Just tell me the name, miss, and I’ll tell you how to get there,’ he invited, trying to look the very rock of dependability.
Still she hesitated. She was very young to be coming to London all on her own – not more than sixteen, at a guess.
‘I know every road there is round here. Born and bred on the Island, I was,’ Will told her, trying to sound reassuring.
She looked at him, biting her lip, her delicious nose wrinkled in the effort of making her mind up whether to confide in him. Will found he was holding his breath.
She came to a decision. ‘I’m trying to find my way to Trinidad Street.’
Will could hardly believe his ears. ‘Trinidad Street! Well, that’s luck for you. I’m going that way m’self.’
She looked doubtful at that.
‘Anything up?’ Tom arrived at his side. Will was irritated. No chance now, not with his old man there.
‘This young lady is looking for Trinidad Street. I said she should come along with us,’ he explained.
‘Ah.’ Tom considered her.
Will knew just what the problem was. Strangers were always regarded with suspicion. You knew where you were with people you grew up with, knew how they’d react, knew you could depend on them as they did on you. But newcomers – it took a long time before you could trust them the same way.
‘What are you wanting down Trinidad Street, then?’ Tom asked.
Will fumed with impatience. What did it matter? She was the prettiest thing he’d seen since he didn’t know when and she was going his way.
Then snatches of half-forgotten conversations between the O’Donaghue brothers floated to the top of his mind.
‘I know who you are,’ he cried. ‘You’re the O’Donaghues’ cousin. Second cousin, or third cousin once removed. What’s y’name now? Siobhan. That’s it – Siobhan. Come to stop with them.’
He grinned at her in triumph. Relief flooded her sweet face. She became animated. A dimple appeared in one soft cheek.
‘That’s right! How did you be after knowing that?’
‘Mates of mine, aren’t they? Work with me, me and my dad, down the West Indias. Mates and neighbours. We all live down Trinidad Street. Come on, now, let me carry your bundle. It’s not far.’
With only a slight hesitation, she handed over her entire worldly goods, which Will slung over his shoulder. Tom walked silently, hands in pockets. Will could feel his disapproval, but ignored it. What was the harm in helping the girl along? She was going to be a neighbour. She was practically one of them already.
Siobhan, now she felt safe, poured out her tale. ‘I’m real thankful you came along. There was no one to meet me off the boat. I don’t know what happened to me cousins. Said they’d be there, so they did. Said London was after being a big wicked city for a girl to be wandering about in. They were right and all, for it’s five or more men have come up to me since I’ve been trying to find my way and it wasn’t my soul they were after, neither.’
Contempt rang in her voice. She certainly wasn’t a complete pushover, Will realized, and the knowledge made her all the more desirable. Now that she trusted them, there was confidence in the way she moved, the way she looked at him with those great cornflower eyes.
‘They should’ve been there to meet you,’ he agreed. ‘Shouldn’t leave a pretty girl like you wandering around London by yourself. There’re some bad blokes about, ’specially down the Highway.’ A sudden dreadful thought struck him. Anything could have happened to her down there. A lovely thing like her. ‘You didn’t come along there, did you?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘Seems like I’ve been walking for ever. It’s all so big.’
‘It is big. You can walk for miles and not come to th
e end of it. Where’re you from? Country place?’
She told him about home, about a little village where nothing ever happened, about working in the big house to save money for her fare, about her dream of living with her cousins in the big city where there was lots of life, always something going on.
Will watched the play of expression on her face, the way her lips moved. She had a full, soft mouth.
‘Plenty of that all right,’ he told her. ‘Just down our street there’s always something. You must let me take you out, show you around.’
Alongside them, almost jostled off the narrow pavement, his father snorted in disgust.
‘Best be getting a move on,’ he said heavily. ‘Your Maisie’ll be wondering where you got to.’
Will could have throttled him. She’d find out soon enough. But just for now it was fun to play at being free and single again.
‘Maisie?’ Siobhan asked.
‘My missus,’ Will admitted.
‘In the family way,’ his father added, just to kick any last ghost of a hope into kingdom come. ‘Six months gone. Going to make me a grandpa, she is.’
Siobhan glanced up at Will, and there was a dangerous spark in her blue eyes.
‘Well, aren’t you just the one?’ she said.
They turned into Trinidad Street and stopped outside the O’Donaghues’. Will banged on the door.
‘Hey, Pat, got a surprise for you,’ he yelled.
Clodagh O’Donaghue, heavily pregnant, wrenched it open.
‘Will you shut your row, Will Johnson!’ She caught sight of Siobhan and stopped short. ‘And who . . .? Mary, mother of God, it’s not Siobhan, is it?’
‘It is too. And you’d be my aunty Clodagh?’
‘Oh, my poor child, what happened? Come along in, do. What are you doing here today?’
There had been some mistake over the dates. Tom and Will were swept into the front parlour as the entire O’Donaghue clan, including a pale-faced Declan, appeared to welcome the newcomer. They all vied to make her feel one of the family, giving her tea, bringing dry shoes, asking after aunts and cousins. Will felt left out, yet loath to leave. Tom pulled at his arm.
‘C’mon. Leave ’em to it.’
Reluctantly, Will agreed.
‘’Bye, Siobhan,’ he called above the noise in the tiny crowded house.
For a long moment their eyes met. There was pride in hers, and challenge.
‘Goodbye now, and thank ye,’ was all she said, yet he had an uncomfortable feeling she had the measure of him, whereas he had everything to learn about her. All he knew was that she was the most desirable thing he had ever met.
‘Nice cuppa tea, that’s what we all need.’
Alma looked round her little kitchen with satisfaction. No matter how hard the day, no matter how many problems there were, it always gave her a thrill of pleasure to come home. Her own home, a proper house with its own front door, its own kitchen, its own back yard. Small, yes, and crowded, what with her own two great boys and now Will and Maisie lodging, but still hers. After years of the three of them living in one or two rooms in tenement buildings or lodging with relatives whose homes were already full to the seams, she didn’t care that the windows didn’t fit, the roof leaked, the back wall bulged. It was hers. She had a door key and a real rent book of her own.
She filled the kettle, set it on the range and took a peek at herself in the glass over the mantelpiece. Gawd, she looked a fright. Decent work was on the short side at the moment and she’d had to go ship scrubbing. Her nose! It was bright red. That was what came of having a quick one on the way home. Well, she deserved a little drink, the state those cabins were left in. She took out a comb and tried to tidy her hair up. She was proud of her hair. It didn’t show the hard life she’d led. Long and thick and dark as a girl’s in a shampoo poster it was, and hardly a thread of grey to be seen even though she was all of thirty-six. It needed taking down and doing all over again, really, but there was no time for that now, not with all this crowd waiting for her.
‘There we are,’ she said, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. ‘Now then, you kids sit at the table. I got a bit of paper round here somewhere, so you can do some drawing. And Milly, you come here by the fire. Maisie, you take your little brother and change his trousers before he makes wet patches everywhere. There’s an old pair of Gerry’s in the cupboard. They’re too big by far but they’ll have to do. I’ll give you a drop of hot water out of the kettle in a minute.’
She searched in the drawer by the sink and found a couple of pieces of blue paper that had once held tea and a stub of pencil.
‘You’ll have to share that,’ she said, handing it to Florrie. The girl took it with a whispered thanks.
Alma sighed. All she really wanted was to sit down with her feet up and a cigarette and recover from the day, but here were all these little ones wanting mothering. It was a bad job all round. Milly had married a right bleeding bully in that Archie. Nearly all men knocked their wives about a bit, but not like Archie. He was real vicious, he was. And now they were all suffering. It was worst for those poor kids. Her own boys had known hunger and bare feet, but they’d never seen her beaten up like that in front of their eyes.
‘There, there, dearie,’ she said, hugging Florrie to her corseted body. ‘It’s all right now. Aunty Alma’ll see to it.’
Florrie nodded. The beginnings of a wan smile twitched the corners of her mouth. Alma liked Florrie. She was a brave little thing, but not strong. Her face wasn’t round like a child’s should be, but bony and pointed. There was always a peaky look to her, even in the summer, even when work was good and they were being fed properly.
‘There’s my girl. That Ellen Johnson sat with you, did she?’
Another nod.
‘She’s a good girl, Ellen. Like her mum. I like Martha Johnson. Doesn’t look down on a body, like some I could name.’
It took all her efforts to see to her sister and the children. It wasn’t till she sat down herself that she noticed Maisie’s mournful look. Flushed from the fug in the tiny room, she had slumped down beside the others, one arm supporting her head, the other curled defensively round her swelling belly.
Alma wound herself up for one more dose of sympathy. Really, you’d think this was the only baby ever to be born on God’s earth. She was over the sickness now, there were no other little ones to care for – she ought to be blooming. Alma never flopped around like this when she was carrying. Loved every minute of it, she had. Especially when the baby moved. She used to get her hands under her skirts when no one was looking and stand with them spread over the bulge so she could feel the baby from the outside and the inside, fluttering about. That was lovely, that was. Made her feel powerful, as if she was the centre of the whole world.
But Maisie was not like that. Carrying babies didn’t agree with her.
‘You feeling bad, dearie?’
A shake of the head.
‘Tired?’
‘Mm.’ Sigh.
Alma glanced over at her sister. This was Milly’s job, helping her daughter through her first pregnancy. But there, Milly was in no fit state. She was sitting staring into her teacup, her hands still shaking. She used to annoy Alma, the way she just took it all. Asked for it, really. But there it was, you couldn’t change people, and she was her sister. When all was said and done, you had to stick by your family.
‘Well, cheer up, dearie. Will’ll be home soon. Don’t want him to see you moping around like this, do you? You ought to be happy, you ought. Fine husband, new baby coming, home of your own soon, I shouldn’t wonder. Lots of girls are jealous of you, that I do happen to know. Lot of girls would’ve liked to have got your Will.’
‘I know.’ Maisie sighed again and pushed a strand of hair back from her face.
Alma felt a spurt of irritation. She was just like her mother at that age; watery, that was it. No go in her. And look what happened to Milly. Not that Will was like Archie Turner, but it never did any g
ood to droop around a man like that.
‘Come on now, Maisie, pull y’self together,’ she said. ‘Give your hair a comb, tidy y’self up. Is that blouse still clean under that apron? Then take the apron off before Will gets in. You look nice in that blouse, you do. Brighten up a bit! You get your Will to take you out. Enjoy y’self while you can.’
‘Mm.’ The girl drifted over to the glass, but stopped to look down at her mother. She bent down awkwardly to touch her arm, then as Milly grasped her hand, took the cup from her and knelt down, the pair of them holding hands, two heads bowed together.
They looked so alike. Maisie was the image of Milly at that age. Milly had been pretty once, but it had long gone. Maisie ought to make more of an effort. That Will was all right, but he was wild. She’d make an effort for a husband like that. Her own had been taken from her in an accident when the boys were babies. There had been plenty of men in the years between but none had married her.
The front door opened, sending a whistling draught through the house. Alma’s heart leapt. Gerry! Her darling boy, in from his job at the corner shop for his tea. His bright head appeared round the kitchen door, his wide cheerful mouth, his shrewd eyes that creased up so that when he smiled his whole face joined in. She drank him in, her baby, her great chick.
He took in the scene at a glance.
‘Room for a small one?’ he asked.
‘Come in, darling. ’Course there is. Good day?’
‘Grand.’
Excitement vibrated from him, charging up Alma’s drained resources, stirring the air of doom with the fresh wind of opportunity.
‘’Evening, Maisie, Aunty Milly, kids.’
A week smile from Maisie, nothing from Milly, but the children responded to his bright enthusiasm. They knew him of old. Something always happened when Gerry was around – something exciting. They latched on to him with a desperate eagerness.
‘You got anything, Gerry?’ Ida asked, bright with expectancy.
He grinned back at her, a teasing smile dancing in his eyes.
‘Have I got something? What makes you think I might’ve got something?’
The little girl squirmed in her seat. ‘Tell us, Gerry. Show us. Go on. Bet you have.’
Trinidad Street Page 4