by Irene Carr
Billy twisted his head on his shoulder to stare upstream. He swore, backed water, thinking to turn and pull away. Then he saw he would not have time and instead decided to go full ahead. That might well have saved them. But as he threw his weight back to tug mightily at the oars he ‘caught a crab’ for the first time in twenty years. One oar skipped on the surface. Without the resistance of its grip on the water his backward lunge toppled him from the thwart to land sprawling in the bottom of the boat.
Harry scrambled forward to take his place, banging down on to the thwart, grabbing at the oars and starting to pull. But the boat had lost impetus now, was sluggish and hard to move. It needed a few strokes to get it sliding smoothly, quickly. He pulled desperately but he heard Billy behind him howl, ‘Oh, Christ!’ and he could see Mary’s face floating pale before him, wide eyed in horror. Then he saw the ship again because the bow was hanging over them. It seemed to poise there for a second and then it slammed into the boat.
The policeman was a big man with polished boots. Mrs Collins had just said, ‘Your mam and dad are a bit late,’ then she and Chrissie heard the heavy tread on the wooden floor of the passage, and the lighter shuffling of other feet. There came a tapping at the door and the old woman told Chrissie, ‘That doesn’t sound like them. See who it is. There’s a good lass.’
Chrissie opened the door and stared up at the policeman’s bulk standing above her like a dark blue cliff. Then she detected movement and saw he was accompanied by the Ward family. The two boys, Ted and Frank, were at the front, their father, Reuben, behind them. Their mother peered nervously around his shoulder and the little girl, Ida, clung to her skirts.
Reuben Ward said hoarsely, ‘That’s her.’
Fear crept up on Chrissie. The policeman looked down at her, sighed and shook his head. Then he glanced over and past her and asked, ‘Mrs Collins? Mind if I have a word with you?’ He took off his helmet and stooped over the old woman, murmured in her ear.
Chrissie stood to one side, the Wards staring at her. She became aware that Reuben Ward had been shocked into sobriety for once, that his wife, the two boys and the girl were crying. Chrissie knew something was terribly wrong.
The policeman had unwittingly raised his voice, intent on reading from his notebook, so now Chrissie caught a phrase here and there: ‘. . . run down in middriver . . . man called Billy Younger . . . caught hold o’ some wreckage . . . couldn’t see them, but he’s no swimmer, anyway . . . a boat from the ship that run them down picked up their bodies, still together . . .’
He closed the notebook and put it away in his pocket. Chrissie stood small between them and the open door, not feeling the draught that whistled in from the passage, but cold inside. Their voices had passed over her head but there was an awkward, awful silence now. She did not know what was happening, only that it was bad.
Mrs Collins asked in a quavering voice, ‘What’s going to happen to the bairn?’
Chapter 5
January 1901
‘I never knew she had a bairn.’ The kitchen was like that of the Carters, with a coal fire, black range and scrubbed table, but bigger. Daniel Milburn rocked on his thick legs before the fire, backside turned to the blaze. At sixty he did not have a paunch or it did not show. On top of his barrel of a body, that was buttoned into the old tweed jacket he wore for work, was a thick neck wrapped round with a woollen scarf, and a broad, florid face, a stubble of red hair. He went on, ‘They lived on their side o’ the river and we live on this one. I’ve not seen her since she was married, fifteen years ago. That’s when we went to her wedding, remember?’
Bessie Milburn agreed drily, ‘Oh, I remember all right. And you never saw her again because you got drunk as a lord that day and Mary was like her mother, your sister, never had any time for the drink.’ She lifted the lid of a huge black pan to stir with a ladle the stew within, and sniffed at its aroma that filled the kitchen. Her five sons and the four lodgers would be in for their dinner soon. She was a dozen years Daniel’s junior, tall as he and plump, red faced. Her hair was drawn back in a bun and her apron, as always, was crisp and white.
Now she waved the ladle at Daniel and came to the point: ‘Anyway, there is a bairn, a little lass. Is there anybody else to take her on?’
He shook his head. ‘Harry Carter hadn’t any relations – and Mary only had me.’
‘So if we don’t have the bairn she’ll go to the orphanage.’
‘That’s the size of it.’
Ted Ward said, ‘We’ll come and see you.’
And Frank put his arm around her and promised, ‘Aye, we’ll find our way across there.’ Chrissie was going to live on the other side of the river.
She was dressed in her best now, coat and boots. The two boys wore all they had, the shorts and jerseys that were washed and dried while they slept. She stood very straight and solemn, listened to all that was said about the funeral arrangements, understood some of it and did what she was told. When Bessie Milburn said, ‘Come on, love,’ Chrissie gripped her hand and went with her.
They crossed the river by the ferry because the Milburns lived on the south shore. The sky was leaden with low, dark-bellied clouds, a typical winter afternoon. The wind swept cold up the river from the sea, ruffling the surface of the water. Chrissie sat between Daniel and Bessie Milburn and stared at the black flow of the river that had taken her parents.
At the undertakers Daniel Milburn had said, ‘You’d better see your mam and dad before the man screws them down.’ He was wearing his good blue suit today and a black tie had replaced the woollen muffler. He led Chrissie to the open coffins but she was too small to look inside. He had to lift her so she could stare down at the waxy faces. Daniel tried to console her: ‘It’s just like they were asleep.’
Chrissie did not think so. She remembered seeing her parents asleep. These things in front of her were like the dummies she had seen in the windows of the big shops in the High Street.
There was no snow on the day of the funeral, but a cold wind and low, heavy clouds. Everybody said there was more snow to come. There had been a thick frost in the early morning and the iron decks of the ships in the yards were slippery with it. The men working on them walked cautiously. On days like this many a man had lost his footing and fallen to his death.
The undertaker walked in front in a top hat and used an umbrella like a walking-stick.
Daniel grumbled, ‘These horses of his want grooming and he’s not feeding them right.’ He was talking of those pulling the hearse and the single carriage in which they sat. The lass looks poorly and she’s no size, Daniel thought as he looked at Chrissie’s face, chalk-white against the black of her coat. She was lost between him and Bessie, dwarfed when she stood alongside the five Milburn boys, who were, in fact, young men of fifteen to twenty-two.
Chrissie felt sick, frightened and confused, still not sure what was happening. She was aware that Daniel smelt of tobacco and rum – because he had taken a nip from a flat bottle he kept in his pocket: ‘It’ll keep out the cold.’ He also gave off an aroma of horses, just as the carriage smelt of them but also had a whiff of leather and dust. Bessie was fragrant with Lily of the Valley and the scent of fresh bread. Chrissie knew she had been baking that morning before coming to the funeral.
Opposite them sat the two eldest boys, stiff backed, hands on knees. Like their father they wore their suits with bands of black crêpe on the sleeves. And like him, they smelt of horses. The other three boys walked behind the carriage as it squeaked along on slow-turning wheels. The insurance policies Mary had paid for, her tiny savings and the money from the sale of the few sticks of furniture in the house, all had been swallowed up. They had paid for a black dress and coat for Chrissie, that were a size too big. As Bessie said, ‘She’ll grow into them.’ And there was enough for the hearse but only one carriage.
Like the sky, the town was in mourning for the state funeral of Victoria on Saturday. As the carriage rolled on over the bridge the adults inside
could see the flags flying at half-mast from the Custom House and ships in the river. On Saturday, everything would stop, but today, Thursday, it was business as usual and the yards along the banks of the river swarmed with men.
Once over the bridge the traffic thickened and the cortège was brought to a halt. Another carriage travelling in the same direction stopped abreast of that carrying the Milburns and Chrissie. This, however, was a much grander affair, the paintwork smart and unmarked, the leather of the harness gleaming and the metalwork aglitter, reflecting what little light there was. A coachman in livery sat on the box.
Bessie, Daniel and the two young men still stared straight ahead of them but Chrissie peeped past Bessie to see into the other carriage. It held an elderly man in a frock coat, his top hat and gloves held on his knee in one hand. Beside him sat a boy a year or two older than Chrissie, certainly bigger. He wore a dark grey suit of jacket and knee-length shorts, with a wide, white Eton collar. His head was turned away from Chrissie, his face lifted to the elderly man as he made some comment or asked a question. Then he turned and glanced across into Chrissie’s carriage and their eyes met.
Minutes earlier young Jack Ballantyne had said, ‘Thank you for bringing me. I know you are very busy.’
George Ballantyne chuckled, ‘I’m not busy but your father is. Now that he’s back I only work when I want to. While he was away he won us orders that will keep the yard in work for the next three years, but it also means three years’ hard work for him.’ Then he added, ‘And a lot more.’
‘A lot more what?’
‘Work for a lot more men. A full quarter of the men in this town work in the shipyards. That’s what we do – build ships. This is the biggest shipbuilding town in the world. And a thousand of those men work at Ballantyne’s.’
Jack was awed, though he was too young to appreciate the statistics. He stared out of the window as a tram passed, rocking on its rails, bell clanging. Then he leaned forward, pointing. ‘Look, Grandfather! There are two coffins in that hearse.’ They were plain coffins with just one wreath and a few small bunches of flowers spread along their length.
George Ballantyne frowned and shook his head. ‘A sad business, Jack. I read the account of it.’
As soon as he had read of the Carter family’s tragedy, he had contacted his solicitor Arkenstall, concerned for the future of their young daughter. ‘What about the child? I don’t believe she is any kin of mine, but – will she be cared for?’
Arkenstall had also read the report and answered. ‘I made enquiries. She has found a new home with an aunt of the deceased. You need not worry on that score.’
George Ballantyne grunted agreement. Loyalty to his dead son demanded he believe the child was no relative of his, but nevertheless, he was glad she would be looked after.
Now, in the swaying carriage, he went on, ‘A young man and his wife were crossing the river in a boat when they were run down by a ship. Her crew didn’t see the boat in the fog until it was too late to avoid it. Both of them were drowned.’
Jack sucked in a breath. ‘That’s awful.’ He said worriedly, ‘You and Father work on the river.’
George squeezed his shoulder. ‘Stop worrying! Those two people were crossing at night and they were just very unlucky. Your father and I won’t be doing anything like that. Nor will you.’ And then to take the boy’s mind off it he promised, ‘We’ll be able to get aboard the ship this afternoon. She’s decked over now.’
Jack smiled happily again. ‘And you’ll take me round her?’
‘I’ll be talking to all the foremen. You can come round with me.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ Jack was never happier than when wandering about the Ballantyne yard.
Then he turned and found he was looking into a carriage that had halted behind the hearse. He was vaguely aware that there were adults filling the narrow seats of the carriage but his eyes were drawn to the small, white face almost hidden among them. The girl watched him with wide, dark eyes. He did not recognise her as the girl he had met one night a year ago, but there was an uneasy stirring of memory, a connection that eluded him, slippery as a fish.
The liveried coachman on the box cracked his whip and George Ballantyne’s carriage jerked forward and rolled on, picking up speed. Jack still stared out of the window for a moment but did not see the carts and trams as they passed, only that pale face and wide eyes. Then he sat back in his seat and was quiet for the rest of the journey, saddened and upset though he did not know why.
He came to life again when the carriage wheeled in between the open gates of Ballantyne’s yard in Monkwearmouth on the north bank of the river. It passed the timekeeper’s office and came to a halt outside the main building. The coachman yanked on the brake, tied the reins, jumped down and opened the door. He touched his cap as George Ballantyne got down and told him, ‘We’ll be here for the afternoon. Come back for us at five o’clock.’
‘Aye, Mr Ballantyne.’
Jack stood to one side, pulling on the overcoat that, with his suit, had been made for him by the same tailor who served his father and grandfather. He followed eagerly as George led the way past the main office where Richard, Jack’s father, was at work. Richard ran the yard now he had come home for a while. Jack and the old man walked down the steep, cobbled bank towards the ship on the stocks. Men swarmed along their path, passing to and fro on their way from one task to the next. Hundreds more climbed on and around the ship. Now it towered above Jack and his grandfather. On the staging around it were the fires of the men heating the rivets for the riveters to pound into place with their hydraulic hammers.
George Ballantyne bent to shout into Jack’s ear, ‘We’ll start at the bottom and work our way up!’ Jack nodded eagerly and followed him as he walked between the timber shores holding up the ship on the stocks. Then they stood under the flat bottom of the vessel where the din of the hammers was amplified through the iron hull as if they stood under a great drum. George looked down and saw the boy’s face alight with happiness now. This was where he loved to be, what he loved to do. One day he would build ships.
In the cemetery there was still snow lying in thin drifts between the gravestones, soot and coaldust speckling its whiteness. Sleet and a fine rain drifted in from the river, bringing with them the smell of smoke. Gulls hung, mewing, on wide wings or swooped down out of sight as they went scavenging. The wind flapped the vicar’s gown behind him like a flag. He had to lift his voice to be heard above the rustle and clatter of the branches of the trees. ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord . . .’ He held the prayer book clumsily in gloved hands. His face was blue and stiffened by the wind that cut at it.
Chrissie stood small and pale between Daniel and Bessie while the five boys were lined up on the other side of the grave. The branches of the trees waved above them, black and dripping with rain. Chrissie could smell the soaked and battered flowers as they were lifted from the coffins. She listened to the words of the vicar without taking any of them in, watched the coffins lowered into the grave then turned and walked away as Bessie led her by the hand.
The Milburns’ house lay on the edge of the warren of narrow streets that was the old East End of the town. It was one of a long terrace, like all the others in the street, but it was bigger with a sizeable yard behind it. It needed to be bigger. Daniel and Bessie slept in the downstairs front room, the boys occupied one of the two rooms upstairs and the four lodgers shared the other.
Chrissie’s room was little more than a cupboard over the stairwell and just as wide. It was given to her because it was not long enough for any of the boys to stretch out in. It held a narrow bed, a curtain with a hanging-rail behind it to serve as a wardrobe, and her box. It had been Mary’s when she was in service, but Bessie had packed Chrissie’s few clothes in it. Under the window stood a dresser with a china bowl and a jug filled with water.
Bessie saw Chrissie into bed on the night of the funeral, helped her to undress and climb in, telling her, ‘I�
��ve put your bottle in.’ That was an earthenware hot-water bottle she had brought from the Carters’ house. The room was chill because, as was usual, the only fire in the house was that in the kitchen. Bessie sat on the edge of the bed and asked, ‘Are you all right, pet?’
‘Yes, Aunt Bessie,’ Chrissie answered obediently, without expression.
Bessie sighed and took an envelope from the pocket of her apron and showed it to Chrissie. ‘Don’t open this. I’m putting it in here to be safe.’ Then she dug down to the bottom of Chrissie’s box and laid the envelope there, smoothed the clothes over it. ‘You keep that in your box till you’re older.’
‘Yes, Aunt Bessie.’
Bessie kissed the small face. ‘Goodnight.’ She turned off the gas and left the child to sleep. Chrissie was not in darkness because the tiny room was lit by the streetlights that cast shadows on the ceiling.
Bessie went down to the kitchen and to Daniel, sprawled in an armchair before the fire. He held his pipe clenched between big, yellow teeth and a glass of dark rum stood on the table beside him.
Bessie said, ‘How much of that have you had today?’
Daniel growled low in his barrel chest, ‘Too much and not enough. Poor little bugger. Did you see her face in the cemetery?’
‘I did.’ Bessie sighed. ‘But she’s never cried. All through, she’s never cried. I can’t understand it.’
But she was wrong. Chrissie was crying now.
Chapter 6
February 1901
Chrissie slept at last and woke to a new day. The sun had not yet risen but the wind had blown the sky clear of cloud and smoke in the night. Beyond the yellow pools cast by the gas lamps in the street there was a high, dark blue ceiling pricked by paling stars. The street that had been silent came alive now with the clatter of boots as the first men hurried on their way to work in the yards.
