by Irene Carr
Sophie had only received Sarah Tennant’s letter that morning. She caught the first train she could from Southampton but it was past nine in the evening when she reached Sunderland. She took a taxi and rode across the bridge as the thunder rolled. Rain bounced off the road and filled the gutters so they ran like small rivers. ‘Wait here!’ She left the taxi and ran through the rain into the club as lightning cracked. She sought out Sarah Tennant and demanded, ‘Tell me everything they said.’ So she heard, word for word, the conversation Sarah had overheard between Fannon, Gallagher and McNally. This only increased the sense of foreboding that had sent her hurrying north and been with her all the way.
Sophie said, ‘I don’t like the sound of it.’
Sarah agreed simply, ‘I think there’s badness.’
Sophie remembered the man who had helped her before. ‘Is Joe Nolan here tonight?’
‘I saw him earlier on, going into the gym.’ Then Sarah cried, ‘But you can’t go in there!’
She was too late. Sophie knew that women, particularly young girls, were barred from the gym but she didn’t care. Tom was not with her to go in her stead so she pushed in through the door herself. Joe Nolan stood by the ring, leaning on a corner post and watching two young men sparring. Several others were punching bags or shadow boxing. A chorus of yells greeted her entry and Joe Nolan whirled around, outraged. ‘You can’t come in here!’
Sophie retorted defiantly, ‘I’m already in. And I’m sorry, but I need your help. Will you come outside?’
He was only too willing. He gripped her arm and almost ran her out of the room. In the passage he let her go and complained, ‘I don’t know what’s getting into young lasses these days.’
Sophie ignored that and asked, ‘Will you take me to this fight?’
He stared at her, uncomprehending. ‘What fight?’
‘In Jackie’s yard. Between Peter Robinson and McNally.’ Then seeing his blank face, Sophie questioned, ‘You don’t know about it?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’
Now Sophie took his arm and urged him towards the door to the street. ‘You tell the driver where to find Jackie’s yard.’
The taxi drove through streets emptied of people by the rain. The pubs were turning out but there were few customers on a wet midweek night, nearly everyone’s money having been spent at the weekend. The scattering of people they saw were hastening home, caps pulled down and collars turned up against the deluge.
As the taxi turned into another street of terraced houses down by the river, Joe muttered, ‘Funny. I’d ha’ thought there’d ha’ been look-outs, even if it is raining.’ But no one stood on watch at the street corner. Then he shouted, ‘Here it is!’ The driver braked outside a closed gate and Joe was out of the taxi in a flash and shoving at the gate.
Sophie joined him and the taxi driver shouted, ‘Here! What about my fare?’
Sophie called over her shoulder, ‘Just wait there!’
Joe Nolan swore. ‘The bloody thing’s bolted!’ He looked up at the high wall in which the gate was set and the other three blank walls that enclosed the yard. The rain ran down his face and he said uneasily, ‘I don’t like the look of this.’
Sophie stood back and blinked through the rain at the wall lifting above her. Its top had been sown with broken glass. The driver appeared at her side to argue, ‘All very well saying “wait here”, but I haven’t seen a copper yet and you owe me—’
Sophie shoved her handbag at him. ‘Hold that.’ As she slipped out of her coat she said to Joe, ‘Give me a lift up.’ She pushed him so he stood with his back to the wall. ‘Hands together.’ He linked his fingers and she set her foot in the step thus formed, grabbed at his shoulders and heaved herself up, balanced precariously.
Now she could see over the wall. As she spread her folded coat over the ragged edges of glass she saw carts ranked along each side of the yard, forming an aisle that ran from the gate to a stable building at the back. An oil lamp hung on the wall there and by its dim light she saw an animal with a half-dozen legs, and arms that appeared as fists then disappeared again into the shapeless mass of the body. The animal uttered occasional grunts and snarls of rage, cries of pain, but mostly it was horribly silent but for sobbing breathing. Then she realised she was watching three men locked in close combat.
Sophie moaned softly, fearful, but now the coat was spread and she pulled herself up and over the wall. She lowered herself to the length of her arms and fell the last foot or so. She staggered but did not fall, shoved down her skirt that had worked up around her waist and ran to the gate. There were bolts at top and bottom where it was set into the wall. They were big, and stiff with rust, but she strained at them and drew first one then the other. The gate swung wide as she pulled at it and Joe Nolan set his shoulder to it outside. Then he ran past her and into the yard.
Sophie stumbled, a heel turning under her, but recovered and ran after him. The rain beat on her head and washed down her face into her mouth. A spray of dirty water and mud was kicked up by her running feet to splash up her legs and skirt. Lightning cracked again and in that second-long flash of light she saw Joe Nolan reach the fighting group and clamp his hands on one of them. The raincoated Fannon stood nearby, fat fist raised as if awaiting a chance to strike a blow. Then the light faded as the thunder rolled overhead.
The glow from the oil lamp showed Joe Nolan hauling Gallagher out of the group, and Fannon stepping up behind him. That was when Sophie raced out of the darkness and into Fannon. It was not a scientific attack. She simply ran into his back and he was thrown forward, arms flailing wildly as he tried to keep his balance. Then Sophie shoved him again and he fell.
She turned away from him and saw that Joe Nolan had his hands full with Gallagher, who was the bigger man and twenty years younger. Gallagher had hold of Joe at the length of one arm and was punching at him with the other while all Joe could do was block the blows. Sophie grabbed Gallagher’s arm as he pulled his fist back. Startled, he half-turned and Joe broke his grip then got in two punches while Sophie still held that arm. Gallagher went down on one knee, head shaking dazedly. Sophie looked for Peter Robinson and saw him standing with his back to the stable wall. McNally lay at his feet, face down in the mud.
‘Are you all right, bonny lass?’ Joe Nolan took her arm and she nodded, breathless. He grinned at her. ‘We’ll make a boxer out o’ you yet. Or a steeplejack, the way you went ower that wall . . .’ He shook his head in admiration and went with her as she crossed to Peter’s side. His face was bloody and bruised, swollen. He still wore his jacket but that and his shirt were ripped so they hung on him. He was breathing deeply, head back.
Sophie said, ‘You’re hurt,’ and her own hurt was in her voice.
Peter shook his head. ‘Not bad. A few bumps, nothing serious, but it was a good job Joe turned up when he did.’
Joe said, ‘Not me. Thank the lass here. She brought me and she climbed ower the wall to open the gate. I think if it hadn’t been for her you’d ha’ been crippled for life.’
Peter squinted at Sophie out of one half-closed eye then seized her arm, urged her aside so Joe could not hear and said bitterly, ‘Thank you – Miss Ballantyne.’ He saw her flinch as if he had struck her and went on, ‘I got the sack from Ballantyne’s – Gallagher fixed me – but I was down by the yard one day, pushing a barrow loaded wi’ coal, when your father picked you up in the car. I saw you’d been having a bit o’ fun wi’ me while you waited for some rich feller to come along.’
‘No!’ Sophie tried to slap his face with her free hand. The move so surprised him that he grabbed her wrist only just in time to ward off the blow. He held her for a second, his fingers biting into her, then he saw her wince. The oil lamp’s glow glittered on tears in her eyes.
Peter let Sophie go and said, ‘Sorry.’ And again, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
The tears were not caused by the pain in Sophie’s arms. She said, ‘I wouldn’t hurt you, e
ither. It wasn’t like that – what you said. I liked you but I didn’t – don’t want to be serious. I don’t want to marry and I’m not waiting for “some rich feller”. I told you once before, I want to be a singer. That first time we met, I couldn’t use my real name in that talent contest and – and it just went on from there. I wasn’t trying to fool you, just protecting myself.’ Now the tears mingled with the rain on her face.
Peter reached out to touch her arm, but gently. ‘All right. I got the wrong idea. But you can see how it looked to me.’ Sophie nodded and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.
Now Joe called, ‘Let’s get outa here.’ Gallagher was on his feet again but holding on to a cart with one hand clutching his middle where Joe had hit him. McNally was sitting up, his head in his hands.
Peter said, ‘Just a minute.’ He walked past them to where Fannon sat in the mud, wiping it from his face. Peter said, ‘It was ten quid if I won.’ He held out his hand. Fannon delved into his pocket and then counted the notes into Peter’s hand. His fingers closed around them and he looked at Sophie and Joe. ‘I’m ready.’
Sophie asked, ‘Aren’t you going to call for the police?’
Peter shook his head and jerked a thumb at Gallagher and McNally. ‘They’ll not get me again and I’ll keep out o’ their way. I’ve got a job on a ship and I want to get to it tonight. We won’t tell the pollis anything.’
The taxi took Joe back to the club, then Sophie told its driver, ‘Home, now.’ She gave him the address in Ashbrooke – there was nothing to hide now and he cheered up, confident he would get his fare at last.
Peter protested in whispers, aware of the driver’s back in front of him, ‘I want to go home!’
Sophie hissed, ‘What would your mother think?’
‘She knows I fight. She’s seen me next day.’
‘She hasn’t seen you like this.’ He had never been beaten so badly as this night. That silenced Peter for a moment and Sophie went on, ‘Does she mind you fighting?’
‘Aye.’ His mother had confirmed her hatred of it less than an hour ago. If she saw him as he was now . . . He did not speak during the rest of the journey.
At the house Sophie paid off the taxi driver and took her overnight case as he handed it to her. ‘He’ll have something to talk about,’ Sophie said drily as he drove away. He was rehearsing his tale already, practising phrases: ‘Why, man, she went ower that wall like a monkey . . . been a hell of a fight . . . fellers lying about . . . clothes tore off his back . . . And they finished up in Ashbrooke!’
Peter said, ‘I’ll carry that,’ and took the case.
The house was dark and silent, the staff gone home to bed. None of them lived in now. Sophie had her key and let them in. She found a note on the side table in the hall beside the telephone. Her mother had left it there for any of the staff who had to answer the phone: ‘I will be working late at the hotel and staying there tonight, but I will be home for dinner, with Mr Ballantyne, tomorrow night.’ Sophie thought that was convenient – and she wanted to talk to her father. She said, ‘We have the place to ourselves, so you won’t have to meet my mother.’ She eyed his battered appearance and grinned. ‘Probably just as well.’
She showed him to one of the bathrooms upstairs. ‘You can have a bath. I am.’ Then she saw his face and burst out laughing. ‘Not in here!’
He grinned sheepishly.
Later, he wearing a robe of her father’s, she in fresh clothing, Sophie cleaned his cuts and gave him a jacket and shirt. ‘They’re some of my brother Matt’s old clothes. I’ve put your trousers in front of the kitchen stove to dry. You can have a pair of Matt’s socks, too.’ She wondered briefly where and how Matt and Helen were and prayed they were safe. She said, ‘He wouldn’t mind.’
Peter said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you tonight – or ever again.’
‘I couldn’t leave you to that.’ She was intent on dabbing at a cut on his jaw. ‘Can’t you give it up?’
‘I was going to. This was my last fight. I got the sack from the yard and I took on the fight for the money. My mother’s poorly and there’s my brother, he’s only nine. But I’ve got a job now.’
Sophie said, ‘Keep still. I can’t do this while you’re talking.’ She was seeing him in a different light, but did that change anything?
Peter said, ‘Sorry.’ He could feel her breath on his cheek, smell her perfume. He felt awkward and rough.
Sophie went on with her task and finally lifted her hand from his face. ‘There you are, all done.’
Peter said, ‘Thanks for letting me get tidied up here. I wouldn’t have wanted to go home as I was.’ He hesitated, then explained, ‘I don’t want to upset my mother. The doctor says her heart is weak.’
Sophie laid a hand on his. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Aye, well.’ He read the time on the watch on her wrist, the watch that had impressed him. Now he knew how she had been able to afford it. He said, ‘I’ve got to get away. I have to join a ship tonight.’
Sophie telephoned for another taxi while he dressed. When it arrived Peter objected, and she explained, ‘Look, Peter, I’m getting the taxi so I can see you off, and I’m giving you a lift. I can afford it. The band pays me five pounds a week.’ She admitted that a little guiltily because she knew roughly what he would earn in the yard or at sea.
He stared at her then grinned. ‘I wonder if Joe Nolan could teach me to sing.’
So they went out laughing, she with relief.
The taxi took them from the big house in Ashbrooke to the two rooms that were his home, to collect his kit. His mother sat in her armchair by a fire that blazed in the blackleaded grate. The brass fire irons and fender around it all gleamed.
Peter introduced her: ‘Mother, this is Sophie, a friend of mine. She’s coming down to see me off.’
Margaret Hackett’s eyes were on Peter as she started to get up from her chair, and she asked anxiously, ‘You’re not hurt?’
‘No!’ Peter laughed, but he was careful to keep his head turned so she would not see one of his eyes was almost shut. ‘Some bumps and bruises, that’s all. Here you are.’ He pressed the roll of pound notes into her hand. ‘That will keep you and Billy till I get paid.’
His mother, relieved that he was unhurt, now had time to smile at Sophie. ‘That’s a bonny lass you are. I’ll just put the kettle on for a cup o’ tea.’
‘Not now, Mother, we haven’t time.’ Peter put his hands on her shoulders and gently seated her again. ‘I’ve got to get aboard.’ He brought his case from the other room and bent to kiss her.
She clung to him. ‘I wish you weren’t going. Look after yourself, son.’
‘Aye, I will.’ Peter released her and held open the door for Sophie.
Margaret Hackett wiped at her eyes and called, “Bye, ‘bye, bonny lass. You’re always welcome,’ and wondered why Peter had never mentioned her before.
Peter swung his suitcase into the waiting cab and said gruffly, ‘She doesn’t like me going to sea.’
Sophie said, ‘Of course she doesn’t.’ They sat in silence, conscious of the driver as the taxi took them down to the dock. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear but there was a cold wind knifing in up the river from the sea. They left the taxi at the gate and walked down through the dark and deserted dock to where Peter’s ship, the SS Chatterton, an old steam tramp, lay by the quay.
Sophie stood on the quayside as Peter carried his case up the gangway and then down the ladder into the fo’c’sle. One dim light burned in there showing the bunks set against the steel sides of the ship that glistened with condensation. The air was fetid with a smell of used breath, salt air, sweat and stale beer. All of the bunks seemed to be occupied by blanket-wrapped bodies, some snoring and all asleep bar one.
Harry Latimer lay reading but he looked up as Peter entered and set a finger on the book to mark his place. ‘So you decided to take the job.’
‘Aye.’ Peter glanced round the bunks.
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sp; Harry said, ‘Take that one.’ He nodded towards one empty bunk. ‘It belonged to the feller you’re replacing.’
Peter dumped his case on the bunk. ‘Has he got a better job?’
‘Mebbe. He was lost overboard last trip.’ Harry went back to his reading, but as Peter set his foot on the ladder again Harry called after him, ‘You’re a mug. Take the advice of another. You’ve seen what it’s like in the fo’c’sle, so get your tickets to be a mate and get out of it.’ Then as Peter stared back at him, Harry closed his book and turned on to his side to sleep.
Peter hurried back across the gangway and Sophie asked, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh, aye, fine.’ It was a job.
They walked back to the gate where the taxi waited. They halted then and there was an awkward silence as he watched her and she looked at the river and the ship, the dock . . . Then she returned his gaze and asked, ‘Friends?’
‘If you want.’ He would settle for that, for now. ‘We couldn’t be anything else, you being who you are, me what I am.’
‘Oh, Peter!’ That hurt her. Sophie put her hands on his shoulders to kiss him, and he suffered it, standing straight with his fists, their knuckles skinned, hanging by his side. She released him when the taxi driver coughed ostentatiously. She whispered, ‘Come home safe.’ Her fingers brushed Peter’s cheek lightly then she was in the cab and it was pulling away.
Peter walked back through the darkness of the dock and climbed into his bunk. He lay awake a long time, not because of his strange surroundings but thinking of what Harry Latimer had said. And of Sophie Ballantyne. When he finally slept his mind was made up.
Sophie lay awake a long time, unhappy. Peter had agreed that they would be friends, and that would be ideal, wouldn’t it? That was what she had asked for and now she had got it . . .
Jack Ballantyne came home the next day. ‘Did you have any luck?’ Chrissie kissed him as he stepped off the train on his return from Holland, and guessed the answer before he shook his head.
‘No.’ Then he asked in his turn as they climbed the stairs from the platform to street level, ‘Have you heard anything of Matt?’