Trinidad Street

by Patricia Burns

  ‘Yeah,’ Ellen said. After Gerry’s confession of the other night, she had mixed feelings about her mother-in-law.

  At number forty, Florrie felt the same way. She liked Alma, liked her warmth and her cheerfulness, but felt crushed by her at times. She told herself that Alma caused the continual cloud over her marriage, but she knew in her heart of hearts that it was not so. She could have sailed through Alma’s loudness and ill-timed jokes, along with Charlie’s leering looks and coarse remarks, if it had not been for the secret she still carried. She had never summoned up the courage to tell Jimmy how her father had died. With every day that passed it became more difficult, until it lay there, a dividing wall between them. Time and again it seemed that the moment was right and she actually drew breath to tell him. But when it came to the point, she could not, and the knowledge dragged at her like a great black stone. It even marred her joy in the baby she carried, her child and Jimmy’s, a new life. But it would be one more person from whom the terrible secret had to be kept.

  Harry had no idea that things were not quite as they should be.

  ‘Nice to see someone happy, sis,’ he said.

  She smiled and said nothing. She did not want to add to his problems, for their mother was no better.

  Alma had lost patience with her sister.

  ‘You got to pull yourself together, girl,’ she said, at least twice a week. ‘Bloody hell, it ain’t as if there was any love lost between you. You’re better off without him. You don’t have to worry about money. Your Harry’s a good provider, better than what Archie ever was. Only thing Archie ever done was knock you around and get you in the family way. You can do without that. And look what you still got – three sons and three daughters, all them grandchildren, and two more on the way. You’re bloody lucky, you are, girl. Not everyone’s got as much as what you have.’

  Though she would not have admitted it to a soul, Alma was finally having to face the unpleasant truth that Charlie was not quite the wonderful son she had always thought he was. She still found it difficult to be civil to Clodagh O’Donaghue, though it was nearly seven years since Theresa had accused Charlie of fathering her baby. She used to be proud of the fact that neither of her boys had conventional jobs. They did not go off to factories or building sites or wait at the dock gates to be called on like all the others. With Gerry making a success of his market stall, she had been able to delude herself that Charlie was some sort of trader as well. His irregular hours and patchy income could be put down to the ups and downs of business life. But even she found it difficult to account for the long idle hours, the mysterious absences from home, the occasional extravagant gift. Still less could she think of a reasonable answer when people remarked that they had seen her Charlie in the company of some character or other with a shady reputation. In comparison with this worry, it seemed to her that Milly’s troubles were all her own making.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, when Alma lectured her, but did nothing to rouse herself.

  None of them knew what to do with her.

  Harry, working long hours like everyone else and often away overnight on trips upriver, wondered what she did all the time that he was not there. When he asked Ida, she shrugged.

  ‘She just sits there in the kitchen, looking at nothing. If I don’t clear the cups away from breakfast, they’re still there at tea time.’

  Harry sighed. Even getting up was difficult for his mother. If they had not insisted that she got out of bed and dressed, she would probably have lain upstairs all day. A vague memory of a piece from the Bible nagged at him, a remnant of some distant lesson, about a man turning his face to the wall and waiting for death. That was what his mother had done. She had turned her face to the wall.

  It was not so bad when everyone was at home. The clatter of himself, Ida, Johnny and Bob all trying to get dressed or washed at the same time, or all swallowing down a meal, masked the underlying silence. But it was there all the same. They all felt it and shied away. Even acting all together, they did not have the strength to face such unremitting despair. Harry was glad to go to work, extra glad to be given longer jobs. Anything for a legitimate reason to escape from home.

  Through the distorting glass of her depression, Milly saw them go. It did not surprise her, thought it did hurt. She knew she was not worthy of their love. They all turned against her in the end. Archie had. Archie had hated her because she was a bad wife, and now he was gone, gone because she had cried out and brought Florrie crashing in to hit him over the head. It was Milly who had brought death upon him. Now it was too late to make it up to him, to prove that she could be what he wanted. The horror of the last scene in the kitchen haunted her, coming back day and night, forever recurring in her mind. Guilt gnawed into Milly. She wanted to tell, to confess her part. It weighed upon her. Sometimes she felt that if she could just tell someone, anyone, then it would not be so bad.

  Because she did not trust herself, she almost stopped speaking altogether. She kept her guilt and fear and grief bottled up inside her, until it seemed that there was nothing else to her. She was empty, worthless. She saw Ida coming in from work to get tea ready, and knew that she was failing in her duty to feed her family. She saw Florrie or Ellen come in to scrub round and tidy up, and knew she was failing to keep her home clean. She heard Alma exhort her to change her blouse or wash her face, and knew she was becoming filthy and repulsive. But she was unable to do anything about it.

  Sometimes, when there was drink in the house, she would take refuge in the bottle. When there was not, she did without, for she could not bring herself to go out of the front door and into the street. She had not been outside since the day of the funeral.

  The rest of the people in the street had turned against her long ago. When they came in she knew it was only to gloat over her in her despair. Women she had known all her life, like Martha Johnson and Ethel Croft, would push open the door and coo-ee at her. She flinched from their smiles and their offers of help. She knew they despised her. Most of all she flinched from her sister and her lectures. It was all very well for Alma; she was strong. Alma did not know what it was like to be Milly.

  The hot summer made it even worse. It closed in on her. Everyone else lived out in the street, playing, gossiping, doing mending or outwork. Milly stayed in the kitchen, staring at the place where Archie had died sprawled across her. She could hear them out there, laughing and calling to each other. She knew they were talking about her, laughing at her.

  The day came when she would stand it no longer. She knew what she was going to do. She had known all along, but it had taken until now to come to the front of her mind. She had been afraid when it lurked there like a black dog in the core of her consciousness. But now that it had finally come out into the open, it lost its terror. She welcomed it. It was the only answer.

  It was unbearably bright outside. She blinked, blinded like a mole coming out of its tunnel. Through the blur of the brassy glare, she saw the street, saw the women on their doorsteps. She heard their voices and knew that they were calling her.

  ‘It’s Milly! Wotcher, Milly, nice to see you again.’

  ‘Come over here, love. How are you?’

  But it meant nothing. She was not really there. The sounds came to her as though over a great distance, the movements were heavy and distorted. Even her own body did not belong to her any more. It was simply a means to get her where she was going. She passed along the street, saying nothing, looking neither left nor right, so that as she went by she left a silence behind her, followed by a buzz of speculation.

  Heavy footsteps lumbered up behind her. An arm fell round her shoulders, making her start.

  ‘Where’re you off to, Milly? You feeling all right?’

  She stared, uncomprehending, at the face gazing at hers. Recognition filtered slowly through . . . Martha Johnson. She had to say something, had to get rid of her.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m all right. I’m going out.’

  ‘That’s nice, lov
ey. Do you good. You want me to come along, keep you company, like?’

  It was the last thing that Milly wanted.

  ‘No, no. I’m all right. I just got to go out, that’s all. Got to – got to get something. Something for my Harry. Got to get something for my Harry.’

  ‘You sure, lovey? I can come along with you, if you like.’

  ‘No. I’m only going to the shop. That’s all. Just up the shop.’

  She had not held such a prolonged conversation for weeks. For a moment that felt like half a lifetime, Martha hesitated. Then she gave Milly’s arm a squeeze.

  ‘That’s all right, then. Can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you out again, lovey. We missed you, y’know. It’s really nice to have you back.’

  Milly hardly heard her. She just knew that she was no longer in danger of being stopped. The exchange had exhausted her powers of speech, so she began to walk on up the street. When she reached the corner, she felt as if she had achieved a great goal. She had escaped from her prison.

  Through the dust-laden streets she walked, enclosed in her cocoon. She did not have to think about which corners to turn, for she had walked along these pavements, past these factories, every day of her life. She had been born, gone to school, worked, courted, been married and raised her children within the confines of North Millwall. She had gone months at a time without leaving the Island at all. So without any conscious effort on her part, her feet took her where she was going. She did not notice the grimy walls or the dirty cobbles; she did not see the sweating faces; she did not smell the reek of leather and chemicals and oil and rotting fruit. The noise of hoofs and iron wheels, steam engines, machinery, hooters and human voices came only faintly through the fog that surrounded her. The fierce sun burnt through the pall of smoke and made the sweat run down her body so that her clothes began to stick to her, but Milly did not notice.

  She plodded mechanically, one step after the other. She was nearly there now. Certain signs began to penetrate her consciousness: a stationary queue of buses, trams, carts, delivery vans and innumerable heavy drays; the pavement clogged with pedestrians; a rumble of half-resigned grumbles, dotted with curses and complaints.

  The bridge was open. The lock was in use. Milly’s heart beat thunderously in her chest. It was a portent. It was meant. Oblivious to protests, she pushed her way through the gathering crowd.

  And there were the lock gates, huge, solid walls of oak. On one side, greenish-brown and floating with filth, was the great basin of the West India dock, lined with tall-masted ships and busy with cranes and tugs and lighters and the strain of human muscle power. On the other, fifteen feet down, was the water of the lock, jostling with lighters and barges, for the tide was low and the big ships were trapped. At the river end of the lock, the other pair of gates was closing.

  Milly reached the edge of the quay. Just in front of her, a step up, was the hazardous plank walkway attached to the lock gate. A few adventurous souls, unwilling to wait for the bridge, were making their way across it. She fixed her eyes on the halfway point, where the pair of gates met. Beyond that there was nothing. She set her foot upon the walkway. Like a sleepwalker, she made her way along. In the middle, she stopped and turned.

  A clanking of iron ratchets sounded as the men opened the sluices. Beneath her feet the water foamed yellow. She watched the churning cataracts, mesmerized by the roar and motion, until her ears and eyes were filled with it. She swayed and her knees buckled, then she pitched forward and gave herself up to the water.

  Harry knew there was something wrong even before he got back to the quay. The news passed amongst the watermen’s fraternity like wildfire, first that some woman had thrown herself off the West India dock lock gate, then that it was Harry Turner’s mother. Harry, coming downriver with the last of the ebb, was hailed by a hoveller sculling his boat home after a spell piloting a barge.

  ‘You better get along home, lad.’

  ‘Why? What’s up?’ Harry demanded.

  The man just shook his head. ‘Think you might be needed, like.’

  Harry glanced at his brother, who was resting on his oar at the stern of the lighter. The boy looked tired, there were great smudges of circles under his eyes. It had been a difficult trip and they had not got a great deal of sleep last night. With the weather so sultry, the little cabin had been unbearable stuffy, so they had bedded down on the decks; but passing traffic had kept them awake for much of the time. He had been letting the boy take it easy up till now.

  ‘Bring that sweep up here, Johnny. I think we better get a move on.’

  With both of them rowing, the laden lighter moved rapidly down with the tide. As they passed the entrance to the Shadwell dock, a foreman from one of the other companies waved at them, standing up in his skiff as a sweating apprentice rowed him along.

  ‘Harry Turner?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘You’re wanted back home, mate.’

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  But still he did not get a proper answer.

  ‘Been a bit o’ trouble.’

  Various possibilities raced through his head – somebody ill, young Bob in trouble with the police, the house on fire, his mother . . . In his heart he knew it was his mother.

  ‘What d’you reckon they’re on about?’ Johnny asked.

  Harry shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he lied. ‘But we best get along and find out.’

  They still had to deliver their load to a wharf down at Woolwich, but as they passed their firm’s quay, they were hailed by a colleague and his apprentice, who came alongside in a skiff.

  ‘We’ll take over from here,’ the lighterman said. ‘You two take the boat back and sign off.’

  Normally a tyrant, the foreman actually laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

  ‘Sorry to hear about this, lad.’

  Harry looked him in the eye. ‘It’s my mum, ain’t it?’

  Beside him, Johnny drew a sharp breath.

  Harry and Johnny hurried home through the sultry streets, fear of what they would find mounting with every footstep.

  When they reached Trinidad Street, practically every inhabitant appeared to be out on the doorsteps. It seemed to Harry, as he broke into a run, that a silence fell as they passed. The eyes watched them, sympathetically, but there was no hiding the avid look.

  Harry pushed open the front door. Instead of being empty and hollow, the tiny house was full to the seams. He could hardly get in the door for relatives – not just Ida and Bob, but Maisie, with all her brood, Florrie and Jim, Alma, and in the background, Gerry and Ellen. They all looked white and shocked. As one, their eyes turned to him, and a heavy silence fell.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  There was an uneasy shuffling of feet. Ida dissolved into tears, to be comforted by Ellen. Alma came forward and put one arm round him and the other round Johnny.

  ‘You better brace y’selves,’ she said. ‘It’s your mum. She – she – well, she’s gone and done herself in.’

  ‘What?’ His mind refused to take it in at first. It was too terrible to believe.

  On the other side of his aunt, he half heard Johnny’s shocked voice saying, ‘Oh no, oh no.’

  ‘She –’ Alma began to repeat.

  ‘I heard, I heard. I just – how did it happen?’

  ‘The lock gates.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  In his mind’s eye he saw the body of his mother turning in the turgid water like a rag doll. A numbness stole over him, slowing thought, dulling feeling, making movement an effort. An all-important question needed to be asked. He knew it was there, knew he wanted to know the answer. With great difficulty, he dredged it from his mind and formed it on his tongue.

  ‘Why? Why did she do it? I knew she was grieving – but to do that . . .’

  ‘I dunno, lovey.’ He had never heard his aunt sound so subdued. ‘She’d been down for a long time, y’know.’

  ‘Yeah,
but not so – not that she had to . . .’

  Across the room he met with his sister’s face. Florrie was ashen; lines of shock were carved into the thin cheeks and her eyes were haggard. And he knew that however much he wanted to ask questions, to lean on someone, here was somebody who needed his strength. He went to her and took her stiff body in his arms.

  ‘You mustn’t blame y’self, girl,’ he told her.

  Florrie was shaking. It was not like when their father had died. Then she had been defiant, even a touch triumphant. Now she trembled with the pain. Harry had the frightening impression that she could shatter at a touch.

  ‘Yes I must,’ she said, so low that he could hardly hear her.

  Ida’s sobs were mounting into a wail. ‘I’m never going to see her again. How can she do this? How can she?’

  Some of Maisie’s children, not understanding what was going on, but catching the emotion, began to cry in sympathy. Maisie gathered them on to her knee and wept as well. Over Florrie’s shoulder, Harry’s glance met Ellen’s. A silent wave of sympathy and support passed from her. He could feel it wrapping round him and buoying him up. There was nothing they could say to each other with his entire family present, but he knew that she was there, giving what she could to help.

  As for the others, he realized that they were looking to him for leadership. He took a steadying breath, trying to think what needed to be done. First his sister. She was always best when given a practical task.

  ‘Florrie, I think a cup of tea might help. It’s no use asking Maisie or Ida – they’ll just go to pieces. Can you do it?’

  Florrie nodded. Harry handed her over to Jimmy and they both squeezed their way through to the kitchen. Bob, who had been standing by himself and refusing any comfort, suddenly pushed past Maisie’s family and rushed upstairs. Once again, Harry looked at Ellen, who was still holding Ida.