Mary's Child

by Irene Carr

  Frank watched all three of them, breathing through his nose, fists clenched and ready for any one of them that moved. He thought bitterly that the Navy’s boxing instructor would have been pleased because he had shown no mercy to these opponents. And that he had not fought in such a rage since he hammered Victor Parnaby in defence of Chrissie all those years ago.

  But none of the three showed signs of fight and now Frank turned on Jack, who put up his fists. For a second they hung poised, then Frank grinned. ‘I see you can handle yourself.’

  Jack returned the grin. ‘A bit.’

  Now Frank explained, ‘I’ve just been having a word with my father there.’ He nodded at the groaning Reuben.

  Jack stared at him, remembering the blows that had felled Reuben. He said, incredulous, ‘Your father?’ He looked at Reuben, now sitting up but still clutching his belly with one hand, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of the other. ‘Is that right?’

  Reuben nodded. ‘Aye.’

  Frank stooped, grabbed a handful of his father’s jacket and lifted him to his feet. He jerked a thumb at the battered Spragg and Callaghan, now being tended by some of the men in the shed, only woozily conscious. ‘They got what you should have had, just because they interfered. If there’s a next time you won’t be so lucky. I’m telling you, lay a finger on me mam again and I’ll put you in the infirmary.’ He tossed Reuben Ward aside like an old sack and walked away.

  Jack Ballantyne did not try to stop him. He had known wife-beating went on, of course, but had not come this close to it before. He gave Reuben Ward a look of distaste then followed Frank. He caught up with him at the gate of the yard where the sailor had stopped. He stood behind the gate, hidden from the road. Jack looked past him and saw the policeman pace slowly by on the opposite pavement then pass out of sight. Frank crossed the road then and Jack fell into step by his side. Behind them the hooters sounded for the end of work for the day.

  Frank glanced sideways at Jack and said, ‘You’re the Ballantyne lad, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Frank said drily, ‘I worked for you for a year afore I went into the Navy.’ And when Jack looked at him, ‘You won’t remember me. You were still at school. But you used to come round the yard with the old feller – your grandfather. I was the raggy-arsed lad sweeping up. What d’you want, anyway?’ he challenged. ‘Are you going to shout for the police because I started a scrap in your bloody yard?’

  Jack’s reply was calm. ‘No. If I’d wanted to do that I could have called in the bobby you were hiding from a few minutes back. You’re a deserter,’ he riposted.

  It was a guess but he saw it was correct. Frank blinked and snapped back at him, ‘What if I am?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘It’s nothing to me. Did you desert just to do this afternoon’s business?’

  ‘Aye.’ Frank demanded again, ‘So what d’you want?’

  The answer was that Jack felt some sympathy for this young man. He could not remember his mother, but how would he have reacted if someone had cruelly used his beloved nurse, Amy Jenkinson? Instead he said, ‘I often walk up this way after I’ve finished work, and stop at the Bells for a drink.’ That was not strictly true because he had not called in there since his row with Chrissie Carter. But he would this evening. Just for a drink, he told himself.

  Frank said, ‘That’s where I’m going.’

  ‘All right, then.’

  And they walked on in companionable silence.

  Now Frank gave Chrissie an edited version of events, saying only, ‘I told him to lay off me mam and he’s going to do it.’ But she saw his skinned knuckles and guessed at the reality.

  She asked, ‘How long are you up for?’

  ‘I’m going back tonight.’

  ‘Straight away? Couldn’t you put up at your Ida’s for the night?’ She wondered if Lance Morgan would give him a bed. ‘Surely they don’t expect you to travel back to the barracks tonight?’ Then she guessed. ‘You haven’t deserted?’

  He shook his head and grinned at her like the boy who had shared her childhood. ‘Not really. I’ve just taken a couple of days off unofficial. I’m going back as quick as I can.’

  Chrissie looked in the sitting-room but Jack Ballantyne had seen the ring on her finger, drunk down his glass of beer and gone.

  When the Bells closed Chrissie walked with Frank to the station. He did not offer his arm as Ted would have done and walked stiffly when she put her arm through his. He talked little. When the guard blew his whistle and waved his flag Chrissie said, ‘Take care, Frank.’

  He answered, ‘I will.’ He leaned out of the window as Ted had done until the night swallowed the train. And Chrissie wept as she had earlier that day.

  At the gunnery school Frank was marched in to stand rigidly at attention before a hard-eyed commander who listened to his story and asked, ‘Why did you have to go? Is there any other family?’

  ‘I’ve got a brother, sir, but he’s in the Durhams and at Colchester on a draft for India. Anyway, he’s not the sort to handle the old . . . man, sir.’

  ‘Um.’ The commander scowled at him. ‘You’ve no excuse, been in the Navy long enough to know what you were doing. But you came back clean and sober, and as soon as you’d finished your – business.’

  Frank was awarded a week in cells and knew he had been lucky.

  At the end of it he met Ted in a pub in London. They only had an hour together and Ted talked most of the time. Frank was glad that he did not have to make conversation. He had wanted to see his brother before the years of separation but now was tongue-tied. Ted talked mostly of Chrissie and that hurt Frank. He had lost sleep over her already and knew he would lose more. He forced himself to be cheerful and shook Ted’s hand when they parted. ‘All the best to you and Chrissie. When you come home you can ask me to the wedding.’

  Ted said solemnly, ‘I want you to be best man.’

  Frank thought, Oh, Christ! He said, ‘Sure – if I’m this side o’ the world. I might be anywhere between here and China.’ And he thought, I’ll be that far away if I can.

  Then he went back to the gunnery school and Ted returned to barracks. A few days later he sailed in a troopship to India.

  Chrissie argued, ‘Now the football season is starting the lads will be flocking past here on their way to the ground.’

  This was Friday night and the next day would see the first football match of the season. She and Lance were in the kitchen of the Bells, with its scrubbed table and the mirror-backed long sideboard. There was the inevitable coal fire and black-leaded range, polished brass fender and fire-irons. Chrissie wore her apron, ready if need be to help Millie, who was looking after the bar. Lance had discarded his jacket and sat in his waistcoat while he ate the supper she had cooked him.

  Now he pushed away his empty plate and shook his head. ‘Aye, but they’ll all be on the main road. And it’ll do no good putting a sandwich board outside of here, like we did at the Halfway House. We’re off the beaten track.’

  The sandwich board stood between them, the words chalked boldly on a black background:

  THE BELLS

  PORK SANDWICHES AND HOT PIES

  Chrissie stuck to her guns. ‘I’m not saying put it outside. Nobody would see it. But suppose it was on somebody’s shoulders and he was up on the main road where they all pass by?’

  Lance said cautiously, ‘Oh, aye?’

  Chrissie urged, ‘Fred Marley will do it for a few pints.’

  ‘Oh, will he? How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve asked him.’

  ‘You have, have you?’ Lance scowled, felt he was being pushed.

  Chrissie saw that and added quickly, ‘I didn’t promise, just asked if he would do it if you wanted it done.’

  Lance inspected the sandwich board again and demanded, ‘How much did this cost?’

  ‘Nothing so far. I borrowed it for tonight. If we use it tomorrow it’ll only cost a few coppers. And I did the printing myse
lf.’

  Lance took that in and said, ‘Oh, aye.’ Then he admitted, ‘It looks a good job. But what about these pork sandwiches and hot pies?’

  Chrissie said quickly, ‘Not much different to what we did at the Frigate and do here for the bit of dinnertime trade we get. I can buy in all the ingredients and make them. Then we can split the profit?’ That last had the slightest rise in tone that made it a question.

  Lance said, ‘Oh, aye?’ He thought about it a moment and then pointed at the sandwich board and said with a trace of doubt, ‘I’ve never known this done before.’

  ‘Not by a pub, but shops advertise all the time because it brings them the trade,’ Chrissie argued.

  Lance made up his mind. ‘All right. I’ll try anything once. Is Fred Marley in the bar?’

  ‘Sitting in the corner.’ Chrissie did not tell Lance that she had asked Fred to wait. ‘I’ll tell him you want to see him.’ And she dashed off before Lance could have second thoughts.

  ‘You’ll never sell half of these today!’ Lance Morgan stared aghast at the trays of pies and plates of sandwiches covering the table and every other flat surface in the kitchen. Chrissie had started work before it was light and was now putting on her coat to go to her job at the Palace Hotel.

  ‘I wanted to make sure there would be enough.’

  Lance sucked in his breath. ‘You’ll have most of these to toss away. You’ve thrown good money down the drain, lass.’

  Chrissie did not argue. ‘Well, you live and learn, I suppose. I’ll be back at dinnertime.’ She did not work at the Palace on Saturday afternoon. ‘And I hope I find you busy then.’

  Lance sighed, ‘I hope so. As you said, “You live and learn.”’

  When Chrissie came hurrying back to the Bells she was borne across the bridge on the tide of men flooding along this congested artery from the town centre to the football ground. Once across the bridge they spread out to use every street leading towards the ground. They filled the pavements and stretched across the roads, an army of sixty thousand marching men with one objective. And when she arrived breathlessly at the Bells soon after noon she had to force her way through the men that packed the bar shoulder to shoulder, all of them talking at once. And all of them seemed to have a glass in one hand, a pie or pork sandwich in the other.

  ‘For God’s sake get your coat off and give us a hand!’ Lance implored her. He was sweating, for once behind the bar without his jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He and Millie worked madly to serve the work-hardened, broken-nailed hands outstretched across the bar. ‘It’s been like this for the past hour. I’ve even got her down, we’ve been that hard pushed.’ He jerked his head, indicating. Chrissie looked that way and saw Lance’s scatter-brained wife, Florence, fluttering between kitchen and bar with plates of sandwiches.

  Chrissie breathed silent thanks and buckled down to work. As she tied on her apron she took a rosette from the pocket of her coat. She pinned it on the breast of her apron and stepped up to the bar. ‘Who’s next, please?’ The men facing her saw the rosette and cheered. The colours were those of the visiting team and most of the men in the bar were their supporters, come over the bridge from the centre of the town after getting off the train.

  The bedlam went on for the next hour, then suddenly the bar emptied. The customers had gone on their way long before kick-off to make sure of a place in the ground. Lance drew himself a glass of beer from a pump, drank thirstily and licked his lips. He asked, ‘Are there any of those pies left? I’m starving.’

  Florence, sitting on an upturned beer-crate and fanning herself with one hand, said weakly, ‘Not a crumb, neither pork sandwiches nor pies. We could have sold more. The last went a quarter of an hour ago.’

  ‘I made a pan of broth this morning and I put it on to warm up a half-hour ago,’ Chrissie told Lance, ‘You can have a plate of that.’ She pulled on her coat.

  Lance asked, ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘I’m just running round to the pork shop. I’ve got plenty of steak cooked ready to make more pies but I need more pork for the sandwiches.’ She crossed to the door with a swish of skirts, calling over her shoulder, ‘I think a lot of them might be back later on.’

  As the door swung shut behind her, Lance muttered, ‘That’s more than likely.’ He turned to Florence: ‘You and Millie have something to eat. I’ll keep an eye on things out here and make a start on cleaning up and washing these glasses. I’ll have a bite when you’ve finished.’ He emptied the till, not for the first time that day.

  The retreating army shoved in through the doors three hours later. Twenty minutes after the final whistle the house was full of men – excited, hungry, thirsty, celebrating, mourning, remembering, arguing happily. The home supporters cheered when they saw Chrissie was now sporting a rosette in the colours of the home team, while their opponents booed goodnaturedly and bawled at her, ‘You turncoat!’ And she laughed at them.

  They filled the bar and the sitting-room, spilled over into the passage and sat on the stairs leading up to the Morgans’ living quarters. The singing started around eight o’clock and went on until Lance shut the door on the last of them at eleven.

  It was midnight before the house was cleaned ready for opening the next morning. Chrissie and Millie did most of that work; Lance was busy counting the takings and working out the profit on the pies and sandwiches, while Florence would only have got in their way so they sent her to bed.

  Finally Millie went off to the room she rented in a street near by and Lance called, ‘Come and sit down here, Chrissie.’ She sank on to a chair beside him at the kitchen table and he pointed with his pencil at a neat stack of coins then pushed a sheet of paper towards her. ‘That’s what I make your share of what we took for the grub.’

  Chrissie merely glanced at the paper; she had already done her sums and knew what her share should be. ‘Thank you, Mr Morgan.’

  ‘When you count it you’ll find there’s a bit extra.’ And when Chrissie stared at him, Lance admitted stiffly, ‘Because what we took today was mostly down to you. It was your idea.’

  Chrissie looked down, embarrassed, and at a loss for words she could only say again, ‘Thank you.’

  Lance eased back in his chair and studied her. He said thoughtfully, ‘You must be making a pretty penny for a young lass.’ Besides her salary from the Palace Hotel she also had her wage from Lance, while part of the work she did for him in the evenings and at weekends paid for her bed and board. She had saved every penny she could since she left the Forthrop house and now with her earning over two pounds a week she had built up those savings to nearly two hundred pounds.

  Lance summarised it: ‘Two pay packets and nothing to pay out.’ He grinned. ‘But I suppose that’s for your bottom drawer.’

  Chrissie managed a smile. ‘That’s right.’ Lance was referring to her marriage to Ted Ward, to whom she was promised. She could not bear to think of the hurt she would cause Ted if she threw him over. But she knew she could never marry him.

  Lance asked, concerned, ‘Is owt wrong, lass?’

  Chrissie smiled again and lied, ‘No.’

  ‘You looked right down in the mouth then.’

  ‘Just tired, I think.’

  ‘You’ve every right to be,’ Lance agreed. ‘It’s a good job tomorrow’s Sunday. We couldn’t do this every day of the week.’ He thought a moment, savouring the prospect of making a lot of money. ‘But it will be great if we can fill the place like that once a week. Very nice.’

  Tired though she was, it was a long time before Chrissie slept, pictures of Ted Ward circling in her brain as she stared into the darkness. But when she finally dozed she woke with a jerk and her thoughts were of Jack Ballantyne. She knew why, though she had not seen him for weeks.

  Richard Ballantyne walked out of the elegant offices of Baptiste et Cie in the port of Marseilles and paused to breathe in the cool night air. He savoured it after the long day spent in the smoke-filled boardroom of the shipow
ners. He turned as Jack followed him out with the rolls of plans and the briefcase packed with specifications.

  They smiled at each other and Richard said, ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Richard went on, ‘You held your end up and the way you talked them all through the payload details cut the ground from under the German bid.’ He sighed happily and started down the steps towards the big Renault waiting at the foot of them. He was content with his day. He and Jack had won an order, to build a ship for Baptiste et Cie, that would keep Ballantyne’s yard in work for another six months.

  As the chauffeur eased the car away from the kerb, Richard said, ‘Tomorrow we go on to Italy – Venice, Genoa and Taranto. That will take us about a month. Then home.’

  Home. Jack grinned. He would see his friends, Luke Arkenstall and the rest; meet them in the back room of the Bells. He wondered if Chrissie Carter would be there? Not that it mattered to him. The girl was engaged to be married. But should he make up their quarrel? He had not been the guilty party, so let her make the first move.

  The Bells continued to do a roaring trade – and it sounded like that, with a packed bar – every other Saturday when there was a first-team match. And they still made good money when only the reserves were playing.

  Letters from Ted in India arrived at irregular intervals all through the winter, sometimes two or three at a time, then none for a month. Chrissie wrote to him and to Frank, though Frank did not reply.

  Then Jack Ballantyne reappeared early in 1912, walking into the Palace one noon with a pretty girl on his arm. When he passed Chrissie’s desk she smiled at him, ready to forgive and forget, but he merely nodded and passed on. She sighed and bent to her work again.