Trinidad Street

by Patricia Burns

  In any other circumstances, she would have been terrified of being knifed, beaten up or worse. But she was so frightened of being late, so taken up with what tale she was going to tell to her mother, that she hardly gave her present safety a thought. The roads seemed to go on for ever. It was like the nightmare where you run and run and get nowhere. From the river she could hear the horns and bells of ships, muffled or weirdly distorted by the fog, so that she could not tell which direction they were coming from.

  Just as she had begun to think that she had got lost and was going to be out all night, she saw the bleary glow of light from a corner pub. Like a ship in a storm, she headed towards it. The Rum Puncheon – she had reached Trinidad Street. Relief hit her in the knees, so that her legs nearly crumpled under her.

  She did not turn into the street straight away, for now she had to come out with an explanation, and nothing she had thought of so far was going to get past her mother’s critical ears. The whole sorry evening flashed before her eyes: the long wait in the shop doorway, the jeers of her girlfriends, sitting in the pub, the performance in the churchyard . . . her girlfriends. An inkling of a story came to her. A row – they had had a row. They had wanted to go in this pub but she had not and they had argued about it and she had run away and got lost in the fog. It was pretty feeble, but it would have to do. She had to say something. Her heart thudding in her chest, she ran down the street and in at her own door.

  ‘And where do you think you’ve been, madam?’

  Arms akimbo, her mother was waiting for her. Even in her nightgown with her hair in a plait, she was enough to make strong men quake, small and skinny as she was. She looked like an avenging angel.

  ‘I – I – I’m sorry, Mam, I got lost. It’s the fog. You should see it. Mam, it’s a real pea-souper. I was so frightened, I couldn’t see where I was and then I must’ve turned the wrong way, and I was all alone ’cos we had this row . . .’ She gabbled on, tears running down her face, making very little sense.

  Unimpressed, Clodagh reached out and turned her round, inspecting her back.

  ‘What you done to yourself? You’re wet through, and muddy.’ She grasped Theresa by the forearms and peered into her face. ‘What you been up to? You don’t get wet like that walking in the fog.’

  Guilt sent a deep blush all over her face. Theresa took refuge in tears. Her mother shook her until her head felt loose on her shoulders.

  ‘That’s enough of that! I want the truth out of you. And just you remember the Blessed Virgin is listening to every word you say.’

  ‘There – there – there was this man. In the fog.’ Out of nowhere, a feasible story came to her. ‘Oh, Mam, it was horrible. He jumped out at me and I fought him, but I tripped and I fell and he had me on my back and there was this puddle, but I managed to get away and I ran and – oh Mam, I was so glad to get home. I never been so frightened in my life.’

  She worked her way into fresh tears, but this time her mother’s arms went round her and she was held to her thin bosom and rocked and soothed and stroked like a baby.

  ‘There, there. ’tis all right now, so it is. You’re safe home with your own mam.’

  Smothering the guilt with relief, she let herself be comforted until the weeping was just an occasional sob.

  ‘Now then.’ Her mother held her back a little and looked her in the eye. ‘Tell me now, did he hurt you at all? Did he touch you?’

  Theresa shook her head emphatically. ‘No, no, he never. I got away.’

  Clodagh heaved a great sigh. ‘All the saints be thanked. Now away up to bed with you and I’ll bring you some hot milk.’

  And so she got away with it. Or so she thought.

  9

  WITHIN A FORTNIGHT, merely being back an hour late and wet through seemed almost desirable to Theresa, in contrast to the problems that now confronted her.

  She did not realize at first that she had been given the push. Charlie quite often stayed away for three or four days at a time. Even though they lived only a few doors away from each other, it was quite possible not to run into him, since they had different patterns to their days. Theresa got up early and worked all day, Charlie came and went at all hours. She still boasted to Siobhan at night about her mysterious young man who took her to wonderful places and bought her expensive presents.

  Then he cut her dead in the street. Theresa stood stock-still and stared after him, a terrible cold fear creeping over her. It had happened, what she had lived in terror of all these weeks. He had gone off her. He had grown tired of the fuss she made about getting home on time at night.

  ‘Charlie!’ She snapped into action, propelled by overwhelming need. She must convince him that it wouldn’t happen again. She was ready to promise anything. ‘Charlie. What’s up? What’s the matter?’ She grabbed him by the arm, her fingers clutching at him.

  ‘Nothing.’ He tried to get away.

  She should have felt relieved, but she did not. There was a closed look about his face.

  ‘When are we going out again, then? Saturday? It was all right last time. My mum never found out.’

  She could feel the watching eyes of the street upon her. Within five minutes, one or other of the Irish women would be over at her house, asking her mother was she was doing talking to Charlie Billingham. Then her mother would be on at her about taking up with Protestants. If she got hold of anything like the truth, there would be the devil to pay. But her need to hold on to Charlie was too urgent for caution.

  ‘I got something on Saturday,’ Charlie said, and made to get away.

  Theresa hung on to him. ‘Sunday, then?’ she begged recklessly. ‘What you doing Sunday?’

  ‘Dunno. I’m sort of tied up.’

  ‘When, then? When we going to see each other?’

  ‘I dunno. P’raps never. Let go, you silly cow. I got to go.’

  He prised her fingers off him and strutted off. Theresa stood looking at his retreating back as grey misery slowly filled her.

  Somehow she dragged herself through the next few days. It was made a hundred times worse by Siobhan, who sensed something was wrong and kept asking when she was going out with her wonderful man again and why he had left her high and dry on Saturday night and what he was going to buy for her next time. All this while she was getting herself all done up to go out singing or with her latest. Theresa had just enough energy left to save face with some feeble lies, sustained by the thin thread of hope that Charlie was just in a mood and it would all be better in a couple of days.

  It was not. By the end of another week, she heard the latest gossip. He had been seen out with some girl from a couple of streets away, a Protestant. So there was no hope left. It was over.

  It was all her mother’s fault. If she had not been so fussy about who she was with and what time she had to be in, Charlie would not have gone. That was the trouble. It was not that he did not like her. She knew he loved her really. He had said so. She had the gold cross to prove it. She held it tight between her hands so that it made a clear impression on her palms, for an even greater fear had now taken possession of her. He had to love her, for she needed him by her. She was late starting her period.

  She had taken no notice at first. She was often three or four days over. But not a week. Never a week. It was too dreadful to contemplate. Each successive day she woke up, praying that today would bring the pain in her back and the blessed dark red stain, almost believing that it would, shutting her mind to the knowledge that it was not going to happen. The week stretched to five. She had to believe it. There was nothing to show, she was not sick, her clothes were if anything looser, since she was hardly eating, but she knew. Inside her was Charlie’s baby.

  Siobhan was getting ready for an appearance. Clodagh still violently disapproved, but she restricted her control to sending Patrick along as protector.

  She sat on the bed they shared, peering into the tarnished mirror and brushing her black curls, and smiling at herself with that cat-that-got-the-cr
eam expression.

  Theresa felt physically sick with jealousy. Siobhan had everything – looks, dresses, talent and a lot more freedom than she was allowed. She could just imagine what would be said if she had wanted to go on the stage. Her mother would have locked her up for a month. She did not realize that her mother had recognized a will and a ruthlessness superior to her own – and seen that if she did not bend, then Siobhan would leave and be lost from their influence for ever.

  ‘You’re after looking like a month o’ wet Sundays, you are,’ Siobhan remarked. She began pinning her hair up, curl by curl, her fingers dexterously tucking each one into place. ‘I’ve heard nothing about this fine young man o’ yours lately. Taking you out tonight, is he?’

  It was the last straw. Theresa flew at her, hitting and scratching, twining her fingers in that hateful hair and pulling out a satisfying handful. Siobhan screamed and fought back, with tongue as well as hands.

  ‘You bitch! You jealous little bitch! You can’t bear it, can you? With your skinny body and your sour face, no man’ll ever look at you. You’re so plain you turn the milk, you do.’

  They rolled over on the bed and fell, struggling, to the floor. Siobhan taunted; Theresa fought silently, hatred fuelling her strength. She took vengeance for every slight, real or imagined, she had suffered since her cousin came to live with them – for Charlie’s desertion, for the terrible future that lay before her. She laid it all at Siobhan’s door. She clawed, trying to mutilate that loathsome, still-smiling face, but could never quite reach it.

  Then the door crashed open and Pat and Declan were there, hauling them apart. The tiny room was crowded with people, all yelling, all demanding what was happening, all appealing for calm. Theresa was beside herself. She hardly knew who was there. She found her voice at last and screamed her hatred, hurling incoherent accusations.

  A sharp pain on her cheek made her head snap sideways. She caught her breath. Her mother was in front of her, face white, eyes blazing, hand still raised.

  ‘That’s enough of that, d’ye hear? I’ll not have fighting amongst family. Hold your wicked tongue.’

  Theresa gulped. The breath rasped in her chest, then tears of pain and anger and humiliation started. Her mother turned to Siobhan.

  ‘And you can take that expression off your face. I’ll thank you to remember that I’ve taken you in like one of my own. You’d best fix yourself downstairs, then be off out. And no slipping away from your cousin Pat, mind, or it’ll be the last time you set foot on that wicked stage.’

  Her brothers retreated with Siobhan, leaving only her mother in the room. There was nothing Theresa could say, no way she could explain, however much she craved the comfort of those strong arms. In the end she was left alone in the growing darkness to sob her heart out.

  Sometime during the long night the turmoil subsided and narrowed down to one thought that she held on to with the desperation of the drowning clinging to a passing branch. She must see Charlie. Nothing else mattered; she just had to see Charlie, and tell him. With that firmly fixed in her mind, she even managed to fall asleep as Sunday dawned grey and damp above the rooftops.

  She knew her courage would fail her if she waited. Feeling empty and lightheaded and not quite in touch with reality, Theresa slipped out of the house as soon as her mother had gone off to Mass, taking with her those of the younger children who had been confirmed. The street was quiet. Nobody was out. Most of the tattered curtains were still drawn. Cold struck up from the paving stones. Theresa stood before the Billinghams’ door with her hand clenched in a fist ready to knock, unable to raise her arm. She did not know how long she stood there, but her body felt stiff from the cold. Then a rattle of a door opposite suddenly shocked her into action. She knocked.

  Alma lay in bed staring drearily up at the ceiling. The cracks were getting worse. It needed a good coat of whitewash. She did not care. She did not seem to care about anything much these days. She always woke far too early now, even on Sundays, but had not the energy to get up. The long hours were filled with thoughts that chased themselves round in circles.

  She was lonely, that was the beginning and end of it. It was so unfair, the way things worked out. There she was, with her empty heart and her empty bed, she who loved men. She loved their big voices and their rough laughs, their jokes and their promises. She loved their sheer physical presence, large and loud and demanding. She did not even mind their selfishness or their smelly feet; it was all part of having them around the place. She would have made a good wife, she knew that with no false pride. Not like some of them along the street. They all wanted to be married right enough, since nobody wanted to be left a spinster, but they did not actually like men, some of them. They were glad to get them out of the house, wanting only their wages of a Saturday so that the rent could be paid and the food bought. They certainly did not want them in their beds. They submitted to their husbands’ demands with resignation or martyred silence because it was the price that had to be paid for protection. They would much rather sleep alone.

  Not Alma. She loved having a warm body in bed beside her. She liked the feel of an unshaven cheek, the rough muscular hairiness of a man in contrast to her own round softness. She liked to wake to find an arm thrown across her or a thigh snuggled up against her own. And she revelled in the act of love, losing herself in a glorious welter of passion and fulfilment. She could have been happy in marriage, and she could have made some man happy too.

  But it was not to be, not since Ernie went. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of him. She missed him so much. The first overwhelming pain had subsided, but there remained a dull ache of loss. She loved him still. In the lonely nights she still made love to him, though they had never done it in real life. What they had had was too special. Like a virgin bride she had been saving it for when they were married.

  On the other side of the thin wall she heard one of the boys stir and get up. Gerry, she suspected. It was not like Charlie to be up at this time.

  A tap at the door and Gerry’s head came round. ‘Mum? You awake? I got to go out.’

  ‘On a Sunday?’ Alma protested. ‘What you got to go out on a Sunday for?’

  ‘Going to see a bloke up Petticoat Lane.’

  ‘You’ll make yourself ill, you will, always rushing around. You don’t never get no rest. Everybody’s got to have some time off.’

  ‘Not if they want to make money. Don’t grow on trees, you know. And don’t you worry about me, Mum. Tough as they come, I am.’

  It was no use arguing, since he wasn’t going to listen to her.

  ‘You take care,’ she said.

  He clattered downstairs, moved around in the kitchen for a while, then was gone with a bang of the front door.

  She knew what was driving him. It was that Ellen Johnson. She could not forgive Ellen for what she had done to her boy. Since she had taken up with Harry, Gerry had been working like a man possessed. It wasn’t right. She could hardly look at Ellen now without wanting to take her by the shoulders and shake her. Turning down her Gerry like that! The girl must be blind.

  The anger lifted her out of the depression a little. When it came down to it, there had always been only her and the boys. They were what mattered most in the world. As long as she had them, she was all right.

  She must have dozed a little then, for the knock at the door shocked her awake. Her heart banging in her chest, she waited, wondering if she had really heard it. Then the knock came again, more urgently. She dragged a shawl round her shoulders and went downstairs.

  On the doorstep was Theresa O’Donaghue. She looked at her, not quite taking her in at first. Then slowly, her brain started to work.

  ‘Blimey, it’s you, Theresa. What the bleeding hell do you want at this time of the morning? It’s Sunday. I’d’ve thought you’d’ve known that.’

  Theresa swallowed. Her thin face was white and strained. ‘I got to see Charlie,’ she said.

  ‘Charlie? What you want with him?�
� Alma stared at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘Please, Mrs Billingham, I got to see him. Can I come in? Please.’

  Her voice was edged with desperation. Alma stepped to one side, all the while eyeing her doubtfully.

  ‘Well – all right – I suppose so. But he’s in bed. He don’t never get up before midday of a Sunday.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Theresa said.

  ‘Oh. Well, you better come through, I suppose.’

  A cup of tea seemed essential to life. Alma plodded around, poking the ashes, making up the fire, putting a kettle on to boil. Suspicion gnawed at her. It was not like Theresa O’Donaghue to come calling on a Sunday. She had never done it before. Alma knew that Clodagh did not approve of her – straightlaced old sourpuss that she was.

  She finally came and sat opposite Theresa, plonking a cup of sweet tea down in front of the girl. She did not touch it. Neither did she answer any of Alma’s questions. They sat in uneasy silence while a clock ticked away on the mantelpiece amongst the samples from Gerry’s stall.

  ‘Charlie give me that,’ Alma said with pride, indicating the clock with a nod of her head. ‘Not many boys give their mums nice presents like that.’

  Theresa looked as if she was going to burst into tears, but still she said nothing. Alma gave up on her. She never did have much time for the girl. She went and got herself dressed, spending time over it since she did not have to rush out anywhere.

  It was an hour and a half before Charlie made an appearance, his hair sticking up on end and his shirt hanging out, his bony feet bare. When he saw Theresa, suspicion and wariness crossed his face.