The Girl From Number 22

by Joan Jonker

  Before Annie had time to answer, Ada said, ‘Of course she made it up, soft girl! The only bit she left out was that her uncle used to turn into a werewolf.’

  ‘That’s not very nice of yer, girl, saying things like that.’

  ‘What’s not nice of me?’

  ‘Well, yer come here as an invited guest, and turn round and tell Annie her uncle wasn’t right in the head.’

  ‘I never said no such thing!’

  The banter between the two friends lifted Annie’s spirits. For two hours she’d put her troubles and cares behind her, and enjoy herself in pleasant company. She lifted the plate with the sandwiches on. ‘Anyone ready to eat?’

  Ada didn’t hesitate. ‘Ooh, yeah, I am! The sooner we finish the sandwiches off, the sooner we can have our cake.’ She nudged her friend in the ribs. ‘D’yer know what, sunshine? If I was offered the choice between an evening of passion with my husband and a chocolate eclair, the cake would win hands down.’

  Hetty huffed, and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. ‘Have yer forgotten ye’re not in yer own house now? Perhaps Annie doesn’t appreciate that kind of talk.’

  ‘I’ll shut my mouth, then, shall I? Will that make yer feel better? Right, then I’ll close it in the nicest possible way.’ With that, Ada leaned across the table, picked up a chocolate eclair and put it in her mouth. And the sounds of bliss were accompanied by a slowly shaking head, and screwed-up eyes.

  ‘It doesn’t take much to please her,’ Hetty told Annie. ‘Just listen to her.’

  Ada licked the chocolate off her fingers before opening her eyes. ‘D’yer know what I’ve just discovered, sunshine? That the sound of pleasure yer’ve just heard is exactly the same sound I’ll be making in bed tonight when my feller gets frisky. So yer could say that all in all, it’s going to be a good day for me.’

  John Griffiths was a quay foreman at Seaforth docks. Known as Griff to his friends and the gang of dockers under his command, he was a good boss. Firm but fair. Having worked his way up over the years by sheer hard graft, from being a casual worker, he had little time for idlers or loafers. No one was allowed to swing the lead in his crew; he expected every man to do a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay. He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, either, which earned him the respect of his crew and his bosses. If a ship was being loaded, and there was a rush to complete the work in time for the ship to sail on the evening tide, he would work as hard as any of the gang. And today was one such day. He was directing the cargo that was being winched on board in a cradle made of strong ropes, signalling to the hatch foreman who was on the deck of the ship with his crew. The men were working to orders, and the quayside was a hive of activity.

  Such was the noise and bustle, Tom Phillips thought he wouldn’t be missed for five minutes. So he waited until Griff’s eyes were elsewhere, then sidled off to take cover behind a stack of crates. He leaned back, his flat cap pulled down over his forehead, and a Woodbine hanging out of the side of his mouth. With his eyes half closed against the smoke from the cigarette, he began to rub his two fingers. They weren’t sore now, and his reason for rubbing them was to keep alive the anger he felt towards his wife. The two children came into that anger, but his main hatred was reserved for Annie. She wasn’t going to get away with it, not by a long chalk. He’d make her pay, by God he would. She’d never answer him back again, or refuse to obey him.

  John Griffiths came charging round the crates like a bull, his nostrils flared ready to do battle. ‘I thought as much, yer lazy bugger. Standing here smoking while yer mates slog their guts out. I’ve a good mind to report yer and have yer suspended. Now get back to work, and I want to see yer working twice as hard as any man there.’

  That frightened Tom for a brief second, for jobs were hard to come by. But crafty as he was, he decided to bluff his way out. ‘There’s a reason for it, Mr Griffiths.’ There was a whine in his voice. ‘I’ve worked for the last couple of hours in agony. Yer see, me son banged the front door on me fingers this morning, as we were leaving for work. The lad didn’t mean it, so I’m not blaming him. But, honest to God, I thought he’d broken these two fingers.’ He held up his right hand. ‘Me wife told me to stay off and go to the hospital, but I knew yer needed every man today ’cos of the rush job.’

  Griff’s stare was unblinking, and Tom lowered his eyes. ‘If yer fingers were broken, Phillips, then yer’d be crying out in agony. And why didn’t yer report this when yer signed on this morning?’

  ‘I didn’t want to make a fuss. I know me two fingers aren’t broken, ’cos as yer say, I’d be in agony. But they’re hurting like hell, honest. Trying to pull on the ropes I was nearly crying out in pain. And that’s the truth, Mr Griffiths. But as I don’t want to let yer down, I’ll go back to the gang and do me best.’

  ‘Oh, no, yer won’t, Phillips.’ Griff didn’t believe a word the man said. For some reason he couldn’t take to Tom Phillips; the man gave him the creeps. You never heard him laughing like his workmates, nor talking about his family. And at times his language was foul. But he was good at his job. And until now, Griff couldn’t fault his work, even though he disliked the man. ‘I can’t have anyone lagging behind. Go to the office and sign off for the rest of the day. Yer’ll lose half a day’s pay, but that’s your bad luck. I’ll get someone to take yer place.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘And don’t bother getting out of bed tomorrow if yer fingers are still sore. I don’t carry any passengers, yer should know that by now.’

  ‘I’ll rest them tonight, Mr Griffiths, and I bet they’ll be all right by tomorrow.’

  The sarcasm still there, Griff said, ‘Oh, I’d bet any money on them being all right for tomorrow. Yer wouldn’t want to lose another day’s pay, that’s for sure. Think of all the pints yer’d have to go without.’ He waved a hand. ‘Go on, out of my sight. I’ve got more to do than listen to any of your moans. There’s a ship to be got ready to sail with the tide. Thank goodness there’s men who’ll work flat out to make sure it does. Now scarper.’

  Griff turned and walked away. He’d only gone a few steps when he hesitated, then spun round. ‘I’ll tell yer workmates yer can’t be here to help them because yer’ve got two sore fingers. I’m sure they’ll have something to say about that tomorrow. And I’m sure it won’t be a vote of sympathy. Now get the hell out of here.’

  Tom watched his boss walk away before flicking his cigarette on to the ground and using his foot to put it out. He didn’t feel any sympathy for his workmates, or regret for letting his boss down. He’d never taken time off before, so they couldn’t come down too hard on him. Anyway, he told himself, by the time I clock on tomorrow things will have calmed down. There would be no mad panic like today. A cargo ship was due in tomorrow, but not until the evening tide. So there’d be breaks for a sit down and a ciggie, or a cup of tea from the tea wagon. Oh, the men would probably have a go at him, but they’d soon find something else to talk about. He didn’t care anyway. It would be like water off a duck’s back to him.

  But for all his bravado, Tom made sure he wasn’t seen leaving by any of the blokes he worked with. He left the docks by a different exit. And once outside the gates, he pushed his flat cap up from his forehead, lit another Woodbine, and swaggered towards the nearest pub. His eyes were glinting as he thought of the look of fear he would see on his wife’s face when he walked in on her. There’d be no one there to protect her this afternoon; he’d have her all to himself. And after he’d given her the hiding of her life, he’d drag her upstairs. He didn’t have to worry about her crying out for help, she never did. She was too proud to let the neighbours know. He could do what he liked, and there wouldn’t be a sound from her.

  Tom licked his lips. Just the thought of what he intended to do with his wife was making his heartbeat quicken. And his desire was being aroused. But first he’d get his kicks from tormenting and humiliating her. She was his slave, and she would be forced to do his bidding. And when his need for
revenge was satisfied, he would satisfy his lust. He would take her roughly, until she whimpered with pain, and pleaded with him to stop. But he wouldn’t stop. Not until he was good and ready. There’d never be a repeat of what happened yesterday, he’d see to that. This afternoon he intended to teach her what would happen if she stepped out of line again.

  The pubs weren’t open yet, but Tom knew the landlord of one on the dock road. Being a good customer, he was allowed in any time. All he need do was knock on the side door. So as he lifted his curled fist to knock, Tom was feeling on top of the world. He was going to enjoy himself this afternoon, and a couple of pints would put an edge on his appetite. What awaited him at home was worth losing half a day’s pay for. And any red-blooded man would feel the same. The blokes he worked with were always praising their wives, saying how well they looked after them. Tom always sneered inwardly when he heard them. They didn’t know what they were missing. If only they knew how docile his wife was, and how he could do what he liked with her, how envious they’d be. Silly, henpecked buggers, that’s what they were. Not a real man, like himself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Have another sandwich, Ada.’ Annie handed the plate over. ‘It’s no good letting them go to waste.’

  ‘Oh, they won’t go to waste, sunshine, yer’ve no need to worry on that score. I’ve got a healthy regard for food, thanks to my mother.’ Ada nodded as memories came back. ‘She drummed it into me that it was a sin to waste good food when there were millions of people in the world who were starving. If I turned me nose up at a jam butty, I’d get a lecture on how millions would think it was their birthday if they were offered a jam butty.’ She picked a sandwich from the plate and took a bite. ‘When I was a kid, I came home from school one day and asked me mam if I could have a butty ’cos I was hungry.’ She turned to Hetty. ‘I often think of that day, sunshine, ’cos I was ashamed of meself afterwards.’

  Hetty’s brows shot up. ‘Why would yer feel ashamed just asking for a jam butty? I used to ask my mother for one when I came home from school. Most kids do.’

  ‘Wait until I tell yer why I was ashamed, and yer’ll understand. I’d brought a mate from school with me, and I remember she was standing next to me in the kitchen while I was waiting for me butty. I was showing off, I suppose, ’cos when I saw me mam putting dripping on the bread, I wasn’t very happy. So I stamped me foot and said I wanted jam on me butty and not horrible dripping.’

  Hetty was taken aback. ‘Yer didn’t give yer mam cheek, did yer? I would never answer me mam back or give her cheek.’

  ‘I never did after that day, I can tell yer. I learned me lesson the hard way. Yer see, I didn’t get a butty after all. What I did get was a clip round the ear, and a lecture on how she hoped the day would never come when I’d be so poor I’d give anything for a dripping butty. And with that I was sent out to play with me tummy rumbling, and me mate from school telling me I was a greedy pig.’

  Annie had been listening with interest. ‘I often have bread fried in dripping. When the family have gone off to work in the mornings, I make meself a few rounds every day. Bread fried in dripping until it’s crisp, yer can’t beat it.’

  ‘I know that now, Annie, ’cos I enjoy it meself,’ Ada admitted. ‘But because I had me mate from school with me that day, I wanted to show off.’ She pulled a face. ‘Instead of me showing off, me mam showed me up! And d’yer know what? That’s one of the days in me life that I often look back on. I learned a lesson that day, and I’ve never wasted bread since.’

  ‘It might have taught yer a lesson on being more careful with food, girl, but did it teach yer anything about manners?’ Hetty moved sideways, out of reach of her mate’s expected reaction. ‘It strikes me yer’ve forgotten a lot of what yer mam tried to drill into yer. Yer manners can be shocking at times.’

  ‘Yer might well move away, Hetty Watson, yer cheeky beggar.’ Ada managed a soulful expression before dropping her head. ‘That hurt, that did. I really thought yer were me very best mate. How could yer say those things about me?’ A sob came to her voice. ‘If yer’d stuck a knife in me heart, yer couldn’t have hurt me more.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! Who are we today? Is it Ethel Barrymore, or is it Bette Davis?’ Hetty gave a deep sigh. ‘Ethel Barrymore, I think, ’cos that’s the sort of thing she would say.’

  Ada’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Got yer there, sunshine. It was Vivien Leigh in that picture with erm . . . erm . . . oh, what’s his name? You know, sunshine, the one what yer said yer’d leave home for?’

  ‘I think I know who yer mean,’ Annie said. ‘Is it Stewart Granger?’

  Ada banged the table with her hand. ‘That’s the one, sunshine, Stewart Granger. Hetty’s got a real crush on him. The only man she’d leave home for. Those were her very words.’

  ‘You lying hound!’ Hetty was really on her high horse now. ‘I never said no such thing, Ada Fenwick. All I said was that he was really handsome, and a good actor into the bargain. But you have to add your twopennyworth, don’t yer?’

  ‘I’ll tell yer what,’ Ada said, loving every minute. ‘We’ll let Annie say who she thinks is telling the truth.’

  ‘Don’t be bringing me into it,’ Annie said, waving her hands. ‘I’m not getting involved in any argument.’

  ‘No, I don’t blame yer, Annie,’ Hetty said. ‘It’s not fair to ask yer, ’cos yer don’t know us very well. Yer’ve only just become a member of our gang.’

  Annie was delighted, but she tried not to let it show. She was being treated like a real friend now, and it would be wonderful if she really did become one of their gang. She could have a little private life of her own. Something precious her husband couldn’t take away from her. With a daughter and son she loved the bones of, and two close friends to fill her days with warmth and laughter, she’d be the happiest woman on earth. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and make a fresh pot of tea, eh? It’s only a quarter to three, we’ve got an hour and a quarter to go before we need to start on the dinners.’

  ‘Good idea, sunshine,’ Ada said. ‘The best yer’ve had all day. And the day is still young yet. Just think, by six o’clock yer could have thought of an idea that’ll make yer rich. Yer could invent something that no one else has thought of, and make a fortune.’

  ‘Such as?’ Hetty asked.

  ‘How the hell do I know! If I did know, I’d invent the bloody thing meself, wouldn’t I, soft girl?’

  ‘Well, what d’yer mean by invention?’ Hetty was like a dog with a bone now. ‘What could Annie invent, like? Give us some idea.’

  Ada’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘Well, I can’t think of anything offhand. But I do know she couldn’t invent electricity, could she, ’cos someone beat her to it. Or the wireless or telephone, ’cos they’ve been invented already as well.’

  ‘Oh, I see what yer mean, girl,’ Hetty said, her brow furrowed. ‘Can’t yer think of something that hasn’t been invented yet?’

  Ada tutted as she slowly shook her head. Then she shouted through to the kitchen, ‘I’m flogging a dead horse here, Annie. So will yer hurry up with that tea before I strangle me best mate.’

  Annie was chuckling as she lit the gas under the kettle. It had certainly been her lucky day when she met these two.

  The pub landlord, Jim Duncan, was pulling a pint of draught beer when across the smoke-filled room his eyes lit on Tom Phillips. The man was becoming a pain in the backside. Jim was regretting now that he’d let him in the side door at half ten, because there’d be trouble with the police if they found out he was serving out of hours. Tom had told him it was only for a sly pint, as he was on his way home to go to the doctor’s. He told some cock and bull story about having his fingers caught in the door, but the landlord had the feeling he was pulling a fast one. But because he was a regular, and spent a lot of money in the pub, Jim pretended he believed him and even showed sympathy. That was at half ten, and at twelve o’clock, when the pub opened, the man had come through
from the back room to the bar, and had plonked himself down at one of the tables. He’d had four pints up to now, and his tongue was becoming loose. He was making a nuisance of himself, and Jim decided enough was enough.

  The landlord placed the pint glass of bitter in front of the customer. ‘There yer are, Dick, look at the head on that.’ He took the man’s money and put it in the till. Then he heard the voice of Tom Phillips, arguing loudly with a bloke sitting near him. Time to intervene, Jim told himself, before it comes to blows.

  ‘I thought yer’d got off work to go to the doctor’s?’ Jim picked up three empty pint glasses from the small round table. ‘It’s about time yer got moving, isn’t it? Although yer don’t seem to be having much trouble with yer fingers now.’

  Tom looked at him through narrowed eyes, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘Me fingers are giving me gyp, mate, I’m in bleeding agony. But I’m not a cissy, like some blokes. I don’t cry me eyes out like a baby.’

  ‘I still think yer should head home, Tom,’ the landlord said. ‘When yer get into bed, and the beer wears off, that’s when yer’ll feel the pain. And then yer’ll be too late for the doctor’s. Take my advice and make yer way home.’

  His eyes screwed up against the cigarette smoke wafting upwards, Tom hiccuped a few times, then asked, ‘What’s the bleeding time, mate?’

  ‘Two o’clock, nearly. I’ll be calling last orders any minute.’

  Tom shook his head to try to clear the haze. He’d had four pints, which wasn’t many for him, but he’d drunk them on an empty stomach, and it was having an effect. But his reason for going home was becoming clear to him now, and he pushed himself to his feet. He was leaning towards Jim’s face when he belched, and the smell, and the lack of manners, was the last straw for the landlord. He put the glasses back on the table, and taking a tight grip on Tom’s arm he pulled him to his feet and steered him towards the door. ‘On yer way, pal, and good luck with the doctor.’