by Irene Carr
He was well pleased with his new lodgings. The food was good and generous, his room was comfortable and he was treated as an honoured guest. Now they had given him a special high tea to mark his birthday and cards to add to those he had received from home. Also he had been given a pay rise at his work in the yard because of the anniversary. He was happy.
Now Violet Simmons stood up and ordered, ‘Help me to clear away the tea things, Dennis. And you two young ones, why don’t you go out to the pictures as it’s Tom’s birthday? Here . . .’ She rummaged in a drawer for her purse and took out a florin she had put there for the purpose. ‘My treat.’ She pressed it into Tom’s hand, ignored his laughing protests and herded him and Dolly towards the door.
At the cinema Dolly found them a seat at the back and they sat close together in the warm darkness.
17
February 1938
The ship was launched in Ballantyne’s yard on a blustery afternoon in March, the wind setting the lines of bunting dancing. The bottle of champagne shattered on the bow of the ship and the crowd of invited spectators and workers gathered around burst into a roar of cheering. The ship began to move slowly down the slipway. It gathered momentum, and as its near ten thousand tons rammed into the river, it displaced a huge wave which rolled away from the ship to break over the sides of the quays on both sides of the Wear. The banks of the river were also crowded with spectators who had applauded the launching, and now they shrieked and laughed, and ran from the wave that washed on to the quay towards them, threatening to fill their boots.
Chrissie stood by Jack on the flag-draped platform with the privileged guests. She clutched her bouquet and cheered with the rest. The ship had been launched by Madame Benoit, whose husband was Jean-François’ manager. The shipowner was not well enough to attend the launching and had sent the Benoits instead.
Chrissie had asked, ‘Why didn’t he ask his wife to do it?’ and Jack had recounted what he knew of Jean–François’ marriage. Chrissie had bitten her lip, shrewdly guessing the temptation offered to Jack, and had kissed him. She wanted to kiss him now but knew she had to show more decorum as the wife of Mr Ballantyne.
She and Jack had entertained the Benoits, Monsieur Benoit lean and courteous, Madame plump and chic, and were sending them home bearing good wishes to Jean-François. He had ordered another tanker from the yard and Chrissie was happier than she had been for a long time.
Sophie swallowed her nervousness again and again but it always returned. Her mouth was dry. She was used to all these symptoms now and knew she would perform when the time came, but that did not help much in this waiting period. She wore a new dress that had cost her fifteen shillings and clung to the curves of her slender body. She knew she looked attractive and had seen the admiring glances turned her way, but reminded herself there were others in the contest, too.
The talent contest was being held in a big public house in the middle of the town. The venue was the lounge bar, long and narrow with a small stage at one end, just big enough for the pianist and a performer. The floor of the lounge was packed with small tables set close together. The chairs crowded about them were all occupied. There were some three hundred people or more in the audience. At a table near the entrance sat three men. Their glances were not admiring. They leered and muttered among themselves. Sophie avoided their eyes and concentrated on what she had to do.
She won the contest, to a storm of applause, which she received flushing and laughing. Looking out over the heads of the crowd, her eyes found one face. Peter Robinson stood in the doorway, smiling, hands raised, applauding. She wondered how long he had been there, and without thinking lifted her hand and waved to him. He saw that and his smile slipped away. He turned and walked out of her sight.
‘Thank you!’ Sophie collected her prize of two guineas, picked up her coat and left the hall. Out on the pavement she looked for Peter Robinson but could not see him. The street was busy, thronged with people. Trams clanged and rattled up and down with an occasional car hooting its way through. On a nearby corner the Salvation Army band boomed and blared brassily. Sophie sighed and decided it was just as well she had not caught up with Peter. She had intended to ask him how he was, as a friend, but now she admitted that would have been a mistake. Peter would not be satisfied with friendship. She would only have reopened an affair that she had closed at the cost of some pain to both of them.
She turned away from the din into the alley that ran along the blank side wall of the pub. This was a short cut to the stop where she could catch her tram. The alley was dark because the only light had gone out, but that did not deter her. She was used to walking at night without fear.
She had scarcely taken a dozen paces into the gloom when heavy and hurried footsteps sounded behind her and a hand seized her arm and swung her against the wall. One of the three men she had noticed earlier pressed against her. He was a head and shoulders taller than she, hair shorn down to his skull, muscular and heavy. McNally shoved his face close to hers and breathed, ‘You’re a bonny lass.’ Then his free hand went exploring. Sophie screamed, then realised with horror that no one would hear her above the din of the street and the band. She fought and for a second McNally drew back his face, startled. He hissed, ‘Shut up! I’ll not hurt ye if—’
Then someone grabbed his shoulders, spun him around and hurled him aside. Caught unprepared, his legs tangled and he fell. Sophie saw Peter had taken his place. It was he who now gripped her arm and hurried her on along the alley to its end. Sophie saw her tram rattling and swaying towards her stop and Peter pushed her in that direction. ‘Go on! Get away home!’ Shaken, she obeyed, but when she reached the stop she remembered the other man and looked back to see if Peter was safe. She saw the big man burst out of the alley and now the other two men were with him. She froze, one foot on the step of the tram.
Gallagher grabbed McNally and swung in front of him before he could reach Peter. McNally raged, ‘Get the hell outa my way! I’ll kill the bastard!’
Gallagher snapped at him, ‘Shut your row! If you start a fight here somebody will shout for the pollis and the pair o’ you will land up inside!’ He glared at Peter, who was also standing ready with his fists up.
Fannon, sweating and waddling, said, ‘Aye, there’s a pollis up the street there now.’
Both he and Gallagher stood in McNally’s path, forcing the angry man to pause. Gallagher soothed him, whispering, ‘I told you I’d give you your chance at him. Now’s the time.’ He turned his head to speak to Peter, challenging, ‘He wants to take you on. Fannon here will fix it up. What about it?’
Peter spoke to Fannon. ‘Aye. I’ll fight him. Where you like and when you like.’ He saw he was not about to be attacked now, lowered his hands and turned away.
Sophie had not heard the exchange, but now saw him go. A voice said irritably, ‘Are you gettin’ on or not?’ She realised the conductor was standing on the platform by her, waiting impatiently, his hand lifted to the bell cord, ready to send the tram away.
‘Sorry.’ Sophie stepped aboard and found a seat inside. Her hands trembled when she took out her purse to pay for her ticket. She closed her eyes and relived those awful moments in the alley. She did not want to think what would have happened if Peter had not been there. And she had not given him a word of thanks.
‘That was a lovely picture.’ Dolly Simmons clung tightly to Tom’s arm as they came out of the cinema. He had not gone to the launching because he had to work in the yard on the Tyne. He was disappointed but philosophical: ‘I’ve seen launches before and I’ll see a lot more.’
Dolly had not been interested, except that it meant he had been able to escort her to the cinema. Tom took her on one night of every week now. Dolly would have liked to have gone more often but Tom attended evening classes or studied in his room on the other evenings. So Dolly would go out on her own: ‘I’m off to see Mavis, Mam.’ She worked with Mavis, serving behind the counter of a cake shop.
Now she said, �
�I think that Deanna Durbin is a lovely singer.’ She prattled on about the films they had seen and Tom listened. She was a pretty girl and he had become fond of her. When they reached her front door she lowered her voice. The lights are out. They’ve gone to bed.’
Tom replied softly, ‘No need to wake them. I’ve got my key.’ The house was silent. When he closed the door behind them they stood in the pitch darkness of the hall. They paused a moment, breath held, and heard the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece in the parlour. Dolly groped for and found Tom’s hand, squeezed it, then led him to the foot of the stairs and up. On the landing she drew him past her parents’ room and his own and so to her door. She turned to him then and slipped her arms around his neck, stood on her toes and kissed him. For a moment he was surprised by her intensity, the pressure of her body on his, then he returned the kiss. Now she was pressed back against her door and it gave to that pressure, swung silently open. They staggered, she falling backwards and taking him with her, as if in a clumsy dance. Then her legs were against the bed and she was falling.
Tom saved her and they swayed for a moment. She reached out one hand to close the door and whispering, lied, ‘You can stay for just five minutes.’
18
March 1938
Sophie lied, ‘I’m just going into the town.’
Tom stood at her open door, handsome in dark blue blazer and grey trousers, and asked, ‘You’ve finished packing?’
‘All done.’ Sophie jerked her thumb at the two suitcases by her bed. Solly Rosenberg had found her a month’s work singing with a band in Yorkshire, starting in Leeds. Chrissie had raised no objection, no longer sure if she was right to stand in the way of Sophie’s ambition.
Tom said, ‘I’ll come with you.’ He was home for the weekend and this was Saturday night.
Sophie tried to dissuade him. ‘Don’t you want to go to the pictures?’
‘I go one night in the week; that’s enough. I’ll just keep you company.’
That was a nuisance, but Tom was one of the two brothers Sophie adored, and she reluctantly agreed. ‘Come on, then.’ She pulled on the tweed coat she had bought for two guineas on the strength of the Yorkshire booking.
When they were out of the house and walking down the road to catch their tram, Tom enlarged shyly, ‘I go to the pictures every week with Dolly.’
Sophie questioned, ‘Dolly?’
‘The girl in my digs, Mr and Mrs Simmons’ daughter. She’s about my age.’
‘Well, well, well, well, well!’ teased Sophie. ‘You little devil, our Thomas. Taking girls to the pictures now. What next?’
He grinned, able to take this from her. ‘You can cut that out.’
Sophie did, because she had other business. ‘Listen, Tom, I’m not just going into the town. Somebody did me a favour the other day and I have to thank him. I think I can find him at the club. You might find one or two people know me, because I’ve done some singing there.’ Then she told him about winning the talent contest and also how Peter Robinson had saved her from McNally. She found it hard not to shiver when she recounted that episode and Tom bristled. ‘But I don’t want Mother to know about this. She’s letting me go out to sing, but if she heard about that she would want to stop me again. So keep quiet, please.’
Tom grumbled, still outraged, but agreed.
At the club Sophie revised her opinion of Tom. ‘You’ll be some use after all.’ She pointed at the door of the gym. ‘I daren’t go in there, so you can. I want to see Peter Robinson if he’s there. If he isn’t, ask if Joe Nolan can come out for a word.’
Tom shoved through the door into the gym. At that moment another door opened and Sarah Tennant stepped out into the passage. Sophie greeted her. ‘Hello, Sarah. You’re still working here, then?’
Sarah smiled and nodded. ‘When I’m not at night school.’
Now Tom emerged from the gym and stopped dead, staring at Sarah. She said shyly, ‘Hello.’
Sophie asked, ‘Did you see him?’
Tom started, glanced at her and asked, ‘What?’ then, remembering his errand, he reported, ‘Joe Nolan is there and he’ll be out in a minute.’ And then to Sarah, ‘Hello.’
Sophie explained, ‘Sarah works here sometimes in the evenings because she isn’t allowed to work overtime at the hotel.’
‘I am now,’ Sarah put in. ‘That only applied when I was under sixteen. But the steward here was good to me so I still work a shift two or three nights a week and save the money.’
Tom said, ‘I didn’t know.’ And he had not known how Sarah had changed. Though Sarah had seen him often when he called at the hotel to visit his mother, she had stayed quietly in the background and he had not seen her for over a year. In that time she had grown and the top of her head came up to his shoulder now. She was just turned seventeen and though still shy she had acquired an assurance while working with Chrissie Ballantyne. Tom stared at this stranger and Sophie watched him thoughtfully.
Then the door of the gym flapped open and Joe Nolan joined the little group in the passage. He addressed Sophie brusquely. ‘You’re the lass looking for Peter?’
‘That’s right. I—’
Joe cut her off. ‘If you’ll tell me where he can find you I’ll give him a message.’
But Sophie wouldn’t settle for that. ‘I need to see him now, tonight. I’m going away for a month and I have to see him before I go.’
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s no place for a young lass like yourself.’
Sophie flared. ‘I think I can make up my own mind about that. What is he up to?’
Joe knew determination when he saw it. He admitted reluctantly, ‘He’s fighting. Bare-knuckle fighting. It’s illegal.’ Sophie had not known that it still went on. Joe continued, ‘I want nothing to do with it.’
Sophie protested, ‘But you taught him to fight.’
Joe smiled sourly. ‘I taught him to box. He was born a fighter.’
She was shaken by Joe’s disapproval but nevertheless she persisted, ‘I want to see him – tonight.’
Joe sighed. ‘All right.’ He jerked a thumb at Tom. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My brother.’
Joe asked Tom, ‘Have you been listening?’ When Tom nodded Joe said, ‘Then you’ll be a witness that I’m doing this because your lass here would have it. I don’t want her father down here blaming me.’ Tom nodded again and shifted uneasily, aware that if anything happened to Sophie, Jack would be asking questions of Tom himself.
‘Come on, then,‘Joe said, and led them out of the club and down to the river, threading the dark streets for ten minutes or more. Soon they came to an alley that formed a black gulf between two big sheds. There was a circle of yellow lamplight halfway down the alley and a man standing at its entrance. He was the look-out, posted there to keep watch and give warning if the pollis appeared. He wore working clothes that were grimy with coal and oil. His hands were jammed in his trousers pockets, his shoulders hunched and jacket collar turned up against the cold wind that whistled between the sheds, bringing a fine rain in from the sea. He called, ‘Here! Where d’ye think you’re going?’
Joe Nolan did not check in his stride, only snapped back, ‘Down to see the scrapping. What d’ye want? A ticket?’
The man grinned with recognition. ‘I didn’t see it was you, Joe. Gan on in.’
Joe was already leading Tom and Sophie deeper into the gulf, and the look-out’s words were submerged by the shouting from the crowd ahead. The men in the crowd were comfortably dressed against the bitter chill of the night and the drizzling rain that had turned the ground in the makeshift ring into slippery mud. As the fighters, both stripped to the waist, danced, ducked, punched and panted they sucked in great lungfuls of air, which in that ring smelt of coal smoke and soot, whisky and beer, sweat and linament.
The spectators were well fed, many smoking cigars and with their motor cars parked not far away. They were the
re because they could afford it, and they were devotees of bare-knuckle contests. They had paid Fannon because he had set up the fight and they betted with him. He had the money stuffed in the bulging pockets of his raincoat, buttoned tight over his belly.
Sophie knew nothing of this, was only aware that the shouting died as she came to the fringe of the crowd. Joe Nolan stopped then and told her, ‘Look, lass, you don’t want to see . . .’
‘Yes, I do!’
Joe growled irritably and shoved into the crowd, elbowing his way, and the men there, knowing him, parted to let him through. Sophie followed on his heels, hearing the raucous breathing and the butcher’s-block thudding of fists on flesh, smelling the oil and smoke on the clothes of the crowd, the sweat. She was sickened and wondered what awaited her. Then she was peering into the ring. She recognised with shock that one of the fighters was the big crop-headed man who had seized her in the alley. And the other . . .
It was the biggest crowd Gallagher, though ostensibly Fannon, had gathered for a fight. Peter now had a string of successes behind him and McNally had a reputation locally as a bruiser. Gallagher had also dropped hints that rapidly became circulating rumours, that McNally was growing old and was now too slow to take on the rising young star. So they had come to see a new champion crowned – and to make money by backing him. Gallagher had been preparing the ground for this bout for months. Fannon had taken bets in handfuls of notes and coins, most of it on Peter Robinson. Fannon, Gallagher and McNally were looking forward to making a killing – in more ways than one.
McNally had come primed to destroy Peter and had tried his hardest, but Peter had learned a lot from Joe Nolan and more later in the ring of experience since Gallagher had been arranging fights for him – though Peter thought that was Fannon’s work. Peter had boxed his man for fifteen minutes. He moved quickly but carefully on the treacherous ground, because a slip could leave him open to McNally’s big fists. He watched his opponent to the exclusion of all else and did not see the open-mouthed, shouting faces around him. One moment they were lost in semi-darkness, the next lit yellow as the wind swung the oil lamp on the wall. He heard them only as an animal-like growl around him. He had anticipated and countered all McNally’s dirty tricks and worn him down. McNally was half a head taller and two stones heavier but he was tiring now. Peter had taken some punishment but he was still strong.