by June Gadsby
‘I suppose not.’ Bridget headed for the hall and the stairs. ‘Excuse me, Laura, but I think I’ll just go and lie down.’
She left Laura admiring her ring and locked herself in her bedroom. Sitting on the edge of her old sagging bed, Bridget thought over the events of the day and her weariness became twofold. After a while, muttering Billy’s name under her breath, she crept beneath the eiderdown and cried into her pillow until she thought her heart would break.
* * *
In the Salvation Army Hostel, Billy felt ill at ease, though he suspected that no place existed where he could feel comfortable. He was given a bunk bed, much the same as he occupied in prison, and a coarse grey woollen blanket. The bed was in a dormitory shared by at least thirty other men. It was basically clean, but cramped and there was an underlying smell of unwashed bodies and stale human secretions.
On the ground floor there was an eating space with long form tables and benches. Men and women were installed there in small groups. Billy chose to sit alone, but was soon joined by a man called Joe, who helped in the kitchen.
‘New, are ye?’ The man was unshaven and had disturbing facial jerks he tried to hide by touching his head with his hand as he spoke. ‘Prison or the road?’
‘Prison,’ Billy told him, hoping the fellow was not one of those insistent types who let their curiosity run away with them.
‘Aye. Thowt so. You have the look. Out on the road, they gets themselves a tan like they’ve just come back from the Riviera. What were you in for?’
Billy’s mouth snapped shut and his chin jerked. He fleetingly met the man’s eyes and looked rapidly away again.
‘All right, son, all right,’ Joe said, holding up his hands. ‘It don’t matter. We’re all the same in here. Hapless and homeless. You hungry? There’s a good stew on the menu today. Rabbit and mash.’
Billy nodded. He wasn’t hungry, but if it got Joe to leave him alone it was worth accepting a meal.
‘Aye, thanks.’
‘The captain wants to see you after you’ve eaten,’ Joe said, pointing to a frosted glass-panelled door through which a yellow light shone. ‘That’s the office over there.’
Billy picked at his food with his head bent low over his plate. He didn’t want the others in the room to think that he was seeking out friendship of any kind. Sociable conversation had not been a part of his life for a number of years. He wasn’t ready to enter into it now and told himself it was nothing to do with the fact that these people were largely tramps and drunks.
In a nearby corner, he noticed a man of indeterminate age with matted hair hanging down to his shoulders. He was rolling in his seat, waving a bottle of meths about and talking volubly to an invisible friend. The man stank to high heaven, as did many of the others, yet there were Salvationist moving among them as if they were the usual Sunday congregation down at the local place of worship.
As soon as he could, Billy pushed his plate aside and headed for the door, which was clearly marked “Captain H. Jones”. He knocked and got a brisk command to enter. The captain was sitting at a large office desk that had seen better days. One corner had a leg missing and was propped up with a pile of old War Cry magazines. The surface of the desk was buried beneath a vast amount of papers and files that would have given any secretary worth her salt an anxiety attack. However, Captain Harry, as he was affectionately known, looked perfectly calm and at ease.
‘Ah, Billy! Come in, come in lad! Have a seat.’
Billy perched on the edge of a wooden kitchen chair. He was still clutching his belongings to his chest. It had been too much of a risk leaving them in the long dormitory where the locker at the side of his bed had no lock.
The captain shuffled a few batches of papers together into well-ordered piles and placed them to one side of the desk with a grunt of satisfaction. His attention was then fully given to Billy.
‘Well now, how are you settling in?’
Billy took a deep breath and swallowed, not knowing how to answer. ‘It’s not what I’m used to,’ he said eventually and the Salvation Army officer smiled benignly.
‘No, lad, I’m sure it’s not, but it’s a roof over your head and food in your belly until you can do better for yourself. Who was that I saw you with this morning outside the prison? A relative perhaps?’
Billy shook his head. He didn’t want to get into any in-depth discussion about Bridget. It would cut too deep.
‘Just a friend.’
‘Hmm. Very pretty young woman. She seemed disturbed at your choice to come with my wife and I.’ Captain Harry ran a hand over his fresh-coloured face and studied Billy from beneath a pair of bushy white eyebrows. ‘Was there not a chance of finding lodgings with her, or would that have been improper? I don’t wish to interfere in your life, you understand, Billy, but I need to know exactly how we can help you to get re-established. With the best will in the world, life isn’t easy for ex-prisoners, especially with the war still echoing in our ears.’
‘I understand that, sir,’ Billy dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘I couldn’t go back there, sir. She...Bridget...she deserves better.’
Captain Harry leaned back in his chair, tilting it dangerously and making it creak.
‘And so do you, young man,’ he said gently. ‘So do you.’ When Billy didn’t respond, the captain went on ‘I know you’re not a believer, Billy, but I hear you’re quite a dab hand at all sorts of things. Maybe you could earn a few shillings doing odd jobs in and around the Army and its congregation.’
Billy looked apprehensive. He had done a little training in the prison workshop. Carpentry, plumbing and general maintenance. But the thing he wanted to do most of all was get back to mending and making shoes. He loved working with leather.
‘I used to be a cobbler,’ he said. ‘For a short while. I had my own shop, but I doubt my old customers would want their shoes mended by somebody who’s been in prison.’
Captain Harry made no comment. He simply nodded sagely and sucked in his mouth. A clock somewhere ticked loudly in the silence that fell between the two men.
‘Billy,’ the captain said after a while, ‘is it true that you have some musical ability? Somebody said you played a mean flute.’
‘A flute, sir? No, not me.’
‘Maybe I got it wrong, but didn’t you go with the Jarrow marchers in nineteen thirty-six. I’ve spoken to a few people who told me a tale of a lad, knee high to a grasshopper, who kept everybody in good spirits with his flute playing.’
‘It was a penny whistle, sir. Nothing so grand as a flute.’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion. Do you still have this penny whistle?’
‘Aye. Yes, sir.’ Billy rummaged about in his holdall and came up with the whistle in question. ‘They used to let me play it in prison...and in the hospital too. The nurses said it calmed the patients.’
‘Really? That’s wonderful.’ Captain Harry was brimming over with sudden enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps you could do the same for us here. We try to organise a little entertainment for our people.’
Billy’s nod of agreement was minimal. A few years ago, had he been asked to perform on his penny whistle, he would have been over the moon. Now, he wasn’t sure that he was up to doing anything in public.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘One day.’
Captain Harry came round the desk and gave Billy’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘I won’t press you, lad. Take your time. After all, you’ve come back to a different world to the one you used to know. And quite likely, you’re a different person too.’
‘Aye, sir,’ Billy said, a dark cloud passing over his face. ‘You’re right there. There’s a lot I can’t remember...some I’d rather forget. It’ll be a while before I feel comfortable with myself, if you know what I mean?’
‘I do, Billy. Oh, I do, believe me.’ Captain Harry reached for his cap, pulled it firmly down on his head and stood before Billy, tall and proud in his uniform. ‘Just you relax. Tomorrow’s Sunday and the band comes here in th
e afternoon, together with the songsters. We have a bit of a service followed by a singsong. Everybody joins in. It’s like a big family gathering.’
‘I think I’ll like that, Captain Harry,’ Billy said, smiling for the first time since his release from prison. ‘I remember the shipyard workers’ band when I was a little nipper. I always wanted to play for them, but by the time I was old enough the shipyard closed and the band broke up.’ A light shone in his eyes and his smile broadened. ‘I’ve remembered something! Me collecting firewood for my mother and...and Bridget and her mother, who gave me my first pair of boots...and the band playing and marching.’
‘That’s grand, Billy. You concentrate on the happy memories. They’ll come back, gradually, I’m sure. Now, I’d better be off. I have people to visit. We try to take God to the sick, the old and the lonely.’
‘If I can put my hand on some good strong wood, Captain Harry,’ Billy said hastily as the captain began to leave, ‘I could repair your desk for you...if that’s all right?’
‘It’s more than all right, son. You go ahead. There’s a yard at the back. And a shed. I’m sure you’ll find all you need out there.’
Billy felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he made his way out through the back of the hostel. There were no more fellow prisoners to mock or bully him, no guards, no clanging prison doors and rattling keys and chains. The people here were perhaps worse off than he was, but they didn’t seem to mind, and bore him no resentment.
The most important thing was the fact that he could make himself useful. If he could keep busy there wouldn’t be time for maudlin thoughts. Maybe even the dreams and the nightmares would fade in time and he could build another life for himself someday, somewhere.
Chapter Fourteen
Christmas had always been special for Bridget. Her mother, Colleen, made it special for her when she was a child, and even when times weren’t happy, even when she could have been drowning in her own misery, Bridget forced herself to make an effort and enter into the festive spirit. This Christmas of nineteen fifty was no different. Well, that’s what she told herself when she put the finishing touches of tinsel and cotton wool snow on the fir tree she had bought from the local greengrocer.
‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy! Come and see.’
Four-year-old Susan came running in from the street, where she had been helping to build a snowman. Her cheeks were plump and rosy; diamonds of melting snow glistened on her dark hair.
‘Is he finished then?’ Bridget asked, wiping her hands on a towel and allowing the little girl she loved to distraction to pull her out of the house before she had time to grab her coat.
She laughed when she saw the lumpy, misshapen pile of snow with pieces of black coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose. She laughed even more when Andrew popped up from behind the snowman, looking just as happy and mischievous as any child there. It was undoubtedly his hat and scarf the snowman was wearing.
‘Just one more thing,’ he said, delving in his pocket and producing a pipe, which he stuck in the mouth of the snowman and stood back to admire his work.
‘Where did you get the pipe from?’ Bridget asked and he gave her a wink
‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,’ he said, touching a finger to his nose. ‘Suffice it to say that my father won’t be angry for long. I’ve bought him a new one for Christmas.’
‘You’re mad.’ Bridget smiled on him affectionately.
‘But I’m quite nice with it, aren’t I, Bridget?’ He fixed her with a look she both liked and dreaded. ‘Aren’t I?’
‘Come on,’ she said quickly. ‘If we’re to go to Newcastle to see the Christmas decorations in the shops we’d better get a move on. Susan, come and get cleaned up, sweetheart. And you, crazy man Andrew – you’d better retrieve your hat and scarf if you don’t want to end up with pneumonia.’
‘It’s all right. I brought a spare set with me. These are my old ones and I’m glad to pass them on to Mr Snow.’ Andrew pulled a face. ‘But don’t tell my mother, will you? She knitted that scarf for me last Christmas.’
‘And if what I’ve seen her knitting recently is anything to go by, you’re going to get another one the same this year,’ Bridget grinned as he threw his head back and groaned. His mother started knitting scarves shortly after war was declared. She liked it so much she couldn’t seem to stop. She wasn’t exactly good at it and her choice of colours tended to be somewhat gaudy, but she meant well.
‘Will there be snowmen in Newcastle, Mummy?’ Susan asked as she bounced up and down in the back seat of Andrews’s car like a Jack-in-the-box in overdrive.
‘I don’t know,’ Bridget told her. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. I’m sure there’ll be a Santa Claus.’
‘The real Santa Claus?’ Susan bounced even more.
‘Maybe.’
‘Hey, little lady, stop that bouncing.’ Andrew ordered her good-humouredly. ‘My poor old car gets scared enough crossing the Tyne Bridge. I bet everybody on the bridge right now can feel your vibrations.’
Susan giggled and did her best to sit still, but she found that difficult at the best of times. Bridget saw the corner of Andrew’s mouth curve up and caught him glancing in the rear-view mirror. He was completely captivated by Susan. She knew exactly how to wrap him around her little finger. He was so good with her though. In fact, Andrew was good with everybody and Bridget considered that she was very lucky to have him in her life.
‘Look Susan,’ she pointed out of the window. ‘There’s the River Tyne where the big boats come in and out. And the big white birds are seagulls.’
‘Ooh! They’re lovely! If we had a garden, Mummy, would they come and visit and I could feed them, couldn’t I?’
Andrew’s parents lived in Gosforth on the outskirts of Newcastle. They had a nice Victorian redbrick house with a large garden. Susan was quite taken with the idea of a garden where she could plant flowers and feed the birds.
‘I think you could charm a dinosaur to feed from your hand, Susan,’ Andrew said and they all laughed.
‘What’s a dinosaur?’ Susan wanted to know, five minutes later.
* * *
Newcastle, Bridget thought, was the best city in the world. It had everything. Andrew introduced her to the Theatre Royal, the Royal Arcade with its antique market, and the grand stores the whole length of Northumberland Street that had everything anyone could ask for. Her favourite outing was wandering around the departments at Fenwick’s, followed by lunch at the Eldon Grill. And then there was the Quayside market on a Sunday morning, which was Susan’s particular favourite. The market had stalls where you could buy bed linen cheaply, where men juggled china and sold whole dinner services at ridiculous, knockdown prices.
What enthralled Susan were the stalls with puppies and kittens, sweets, candyfloss and toffee apples; and there were often clowns and acrobats. Sometimes, they would see a huge black man parading in outrageously fancy waistcoats and baggy pants, wearing a headdress of ostrich feathers. He would march up and down shouting “I gotta horse”. Now there was a novelty. Being a port there were often foreign sailors in evidence, but no one with skin quite as black as the flamboyant tipster, Prince Monolulu, who was famous the length and breadth of Britain’s race courses.
But today everyone was gravitating towards the city centre where The Salvation Army band was entertaining the shoppers all with Christmas Carols around the tall and elegant Grey’s Monument. The column stood over one hundred and thirty feet tall, with the sculpture of the famous Earl Grey standing proud on the top. Down below there were Christmas trees with winking coloured lights. The organisers had done the city proud, even though the people still lived in post-war circumstances. But things were getting noticeably better.
‘See that man up there,’ Andrew said, directing Susan’s eyes to the statue. ‘That’s Earl Grey. He’s been up there since 1838.’
‘Ooh!’ was Susan’s reply. ‘Isn’t he tired?’
‘He’s made of stone,
Susan,’ Bridget said and turned to Andrew with a grin. ‘What was he famous for, anyway?’
‘Well,’ said Andrew, always happy to pass on his knowledge, ‘He was an inventor of tea mixtures, and the Prime Minister of England. He was also responsible for the 1832 Reform Bill leading to modern parliament in England. A great man indeed.’
‘Well I never,’ said Bridget, but her attention had been drawn to the glorious sound of the Salvation Army Band giving a rousing rendition of Hark The Herald Angels Sing.
People were congregating around the band and, as they played, a few new flakes of snow began to drift down from an iron-grey sky. The bandsmen and the songsters, all in their uniforms and smiling broadly at their public, were being decorated with a sprinkling of glistening white snow, like icing sugar on their shoulders. Clouds of steam emitted from them and their instruments as their warm, damp breath hit the frozen air.
‘Do you want to listen to the band, Susan?’ Andrew lifted the child onto his shoulders and pushed forward through the crowd of observers.
Bridget followed in his wake, a strange, nostalgic churning in her stomach. The sound of the brass band was awakening something in her memory. She remembered the day when she and Billy listened to the ship workers’ band as they’d paraded through the streets of Jarrow. It was a long time ago. They had both been very young and innocent, though they had seen life in the raw with poverty and unemployment, before and since. Yes, she thought, and murder.
God rest Patrick Flynn’s black soul, she thought. How he had wreaked havoc on her and Billy’s family. It might be temporarily forgotten, until something stirred it up again, but it wasn’t anything she could ever forgive, not even to please God.
Listening to the kind of music Billy used to love, Bridget couldn’t help her thoughts wandering, couldn’t stop herself wondering what had become of Billy, who turned his back on her rather than let her help him when he came out of prison. It had been months and not a word from him.
