She sang or hummed no more but, filled with the old dread, waited for John coming in—she had spoken too soon about her road turning. There was something afoot, and from the appearance of Dominic it was bad.
Katie and Molly rushed in, their hands blue and their noses red. ‘Oh, Ma, is the tea ready?’ ‘And, Ma, our Katie’s dirtied her knickers,’ cried Molly.
‘What!’
Both Katie and Molly burst out laughing at their mother’s expression. Molly bringing her head down to Katie’s and the two of them pressing their faces together in their mirth.
‘Not that way. She slipped on a slide and ended up in some broken ice and slush,’ Molly giggled.
‘Are you wet?’ Mary Ellen asked Katie.
‘No, Ma, it dried.’
‘Tea won’t be for some time yet,’ said Mary Ellen. ‘Here take a bit of bread and get yourselves out again.’
Mary Ellen pushed a slice of bread at each of them. ‘You can stay out for another half-hour or so. Hunt up Mick and bring him back with you.’ It would be better, she thought, if she had the house to herself when John came in.
When at last she heard the clanking footsteps in the yard, she stood still facing the door. It might be Shane. The feet kicked against the wall, and the door opened. It was John, not with brows drawn and lips tight, but with an almost childish expression of pleasure on his face. He wasn’t smiling—with an effort he was keeping his face straight—but the light in his eyes danced at her. She turned from him, puzzled. It couldn’t be that lass with the fur coat. No, how could that affect Dominic?
‘Is it still snowing?’ she asked, as she bent over the pan on the fire.
John didn’t answer, but came and stood by her. ‘Anybody in?’
‘No,’ she said.
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her round to face him, so close that her head had to go back to look up at him. ‘I’ll give you three guesses . . . What do you think’s happened?’
‘Why, lad, how should I know?’
‘Go on.’
‘You’ve been set on the Benisaf boat.’
John flung his head back and laughed out loud.
‘Aye, lad, how should I know? Tell us.’
He stepped back, thrust his thumbs into the lapel of his coat, drew himself up to his fullest height with mock dignity, and said, in the deepest tones of his voice, ‘Mrs O’Brien, behold . . . a gaffer!’
A gaffer . . . Mary Ellen could make no comment. Had he gone mad too? A gaffer. Her lad, and him only twenty-two. Why, there was something wrong somewhere. There was only one gaffer over the boats, and he must be a man steady in his years. The old gaffer had died a couple of days ago, she knew, but they couldn’t have picked John. It was fantastic. Her face expressed her feelings, and John laughed and said, ‘You don’t believe it?’
‘Well, lad . . .’
‘Yes, I know it’s hard to take in.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘I haven’t taken it right in meself yet. I couldn’t, for the life of me, believe they meant it.’
‘Did the men pick you?’
‘Yes, they voted for me to take old Reville’s place.’
It was customary for the dock men who unloaded the boats to choose their own boss. They also paid him so much a head out of their wages. Most of the unloading was paid on tonnage, and the gaffer’s job was to select men for the boat and at the end of discharging collect the money from the dock office, subtract his due and pay out the men. But this alone did not cover his duties, which often entailed taking off his coat and fighting it out with any man who thought he was not getting a square deal, and who said so forcibly. Another thing expected of the gaffer was to provide subs for men who were out of work and advances to those just being set on again.
This was in Mary Ellen’s mind when she said, ‘But lad, how can you do it? . . . The subs.’
‘I’ve got over that. You know McCabe in the dock office. Well, when I went to tell him he seemed to know how I was fixed, and offered to lend me a few pounds to make a start . . . I’ll be able to pay it back in a few weeks. And I won’t forget him for it.’
‘Lad, don’t start on borrowed money. There’s the twenty-five shillings for that coat. I don’t need a coat; I’ve made . . .’
‘Here . . . that’s enough. You’re getting that coat.’
‘Were all the men for you?’ She gazed up into his face; she was smiling now and her heart was racing within her breast. To think her lad had been picked for a gaffer. Oh, the road had turned all right.
‘Not all. But the ones that mattered were.’ He turned away and took off his coat. She knew he was referring to Dominic, and perhaps Shane.
‘Does your da know?’
‘Yes. He took it all right.’
She heaved a sigh of relief. Now perhaps Shane would get set on more often. No. She could quieten her hopes on that score—John would more likely be fair to the other extreme.
‘Was none of the others after it?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But none of them were steady.’
Her eyes became misted. They had picked him, despite his years, because he was . . . steady. Her John a gaffer. And Katie set on the road to be a teacher. Oh, God was good.
The tears, gathering in her throat, threatened to choke her, and she turned away and put her apron to her face.
‘Here! Here!’ John pulled her round, and as his great arms pressed her gently to him a dam burst within her. No sorrow could have broken it; but this happiness was overwhelming, and she sobbed it out, leaning against him.
An hour later, when John saw Christine, he knew that she was already aware of what he had come to tell her; and after she exclaimed, ‘Oh, John, what wonderful news! And at Christmas too,’ he looked at her closely and asked, ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you well?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m all right,’ she said hastily.
‘No you’re not, you’re as white as a sheet. Has . . . ?’
She turned away and picked up a half-dressed doll from the table. ‘Dominic’s just gone. He told me about you being made a gaffer,’ she said.
‘Yes, I bet he did; and he’ll likely be the first one I’ll have to take my coat off to. But that didn’t make you look like this.’
Christine sat down by the fire with the doll on her knee, and proceeded to pull a frilled silk dress over its head.
‘Look. If he’s been up to any of his tricks . . .’
Christine cut him short with unusual curtness: ‘He asked me to marry him.’ She said it while looking John full in the face; the look was almost a challenge, and he experienced a feeling of guilt. Why, he couldn’t fathom; but it was so strong that it swamped his indignation at Dominic’s audacity.
‘He wants me to go to Liverpool with him; then perhaps abroad.’
‘Abroad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going to marry him?’
‘No.’ She was still looking at him, the dress was only half over the doll’s head. He blinked, and looked away from her down at his feet; and she sighed faintly and resumed the fitting of the dress.
John looked at her again. She was so sweet sitting there dressing the doll; why couldn’t he go to her and put his arms about her and kiss her, just as often before he’d had the desire to kiss her? But he knew that, whereas for him it would merely be a kiss, to her it would be the absolute symbol of love. How he became possessed of this knowledge he didn’t know, for, as he had asked himself on previous occasions, what did he know about lasses? If she were Jenny Carey or Lily McDonald he would perhaps have kissed her by now and let things take their course, but with Christine he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be fair. Was it even fair to come in so often? He supposed not, but he liked talking to her and Peter.
The strain that had fallen on them was relieved by David appearing. After glancing round, he asked, ‘Has he gone then?’
‘If you’re staying in take your coat off, dear,’ said Christine.
John knew to whom David was referring, he also gues
sed that Dominic had shooed David out.
‘I’m getting a sculler for Christmas, John . . . a real one.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. Aren’t I, Christine?’
The boy’s large, dark eyes, glowing in his pale face, always aroused a tenderness in John. He was so thin, and almost girlish in his fragility.
John asked Christine, ‘He doesn’t mean a real one?’
‘Yes. Grandfather has already bought it—it’s at the quay corner. David’s going to paint it himself and get it ready for the fine weather. Aren’t you?’
The brother and sister smiled at each other. John realised that this was another of Peter’s ways to eliminate yet another fear from his grandson. The child was highly strung and nervous, and had never quite got over the shock of seeing his parents killed in a collision between a tram and a cab when he was five years old. The episode at the gut no doubt added the fear that the boat was to erase. And the thought came to John, as it had often done lately, that Peter was a splendid man. How could anyone mock at him? By! he wished he’d been there when that crowd of hooligans burnt his hut down. They would have gone along with it.
He looked at the boy standing by Christine’s side watching her put the bonnet on the doll . . . They were like a little family of saints, tender with each other, kind to everyone, and forgiving beyond his power to understand. He sat for a while longer watching Christine finishing the doll. Then he said he must get indoors and give a hand, for there were still more decorations to be hung around the walls.
Christine smiled at him as he left: ‘I’m glad about your job, John.’
‘Thanks. I knew you’d be . . . Tell Peter, will you?’
Christine nodded; and David cried suddenly, ‘I’m going to stand at the corner, Christine, and wait for Grandfather.’
The boy chattered loudly as he and John walked down the yard, but outside, in the back lane, he pulled at John’s arm and whispered, ‘John, can I . . . I want to tell you something.’
‘Yes, what is it, David?’ John stooped to him.
‘It’s Dominic—Christine’s frightened of him . . . she’s always frightened of him. He made me go out and he said to Christine you wouldn’t get her, but he would, some way. You won’t let him, will you?’
John remained silent for a moment, looking at the blur that was the boy’s white face, which stood out even against the newly fallen snow. It was straining up to him, appealing, pleading. ‘Don’t you worry, David. Christine will be all right; I’ll see to that.’
‘Will you, John? Will you?’
‘Yes—’ John patted David’s hand, and the boy seemed satisfied and ran off in evident relief; and John turned thoughtfully into the backyard, to meet Katie coming out of the lavatory.
‘Come in here a minute,’ he said to her, drawing her into the washhouse and closing the door; ‘I want you to do something for me.’
‘Yes, John?’
He knew by her voice that her face was eager. ‘Look; whenever you hear Dominic go in next door, you run in the other way, will you?’
‘Yes, John. But if me ma . . . ?’
‘You can tell her you are going to return something of David’s, a picture book or something.’
‘Yes, John.’
‘And no matter what he says, don’t leave him alone with her. If he makes you and I’m in, come and tell me. You’ve got that now?’
‘Yes, John.’
‘Has he ever chased you out?’
Remembering Christine’s warning, Katie merely answered, ‘Sometimes.’
‘Have you ever seen him . . . ?’ John stopped. ‘Well, never mind. You know what to do, don’t you?’
‘Yes, John.’
Neither Katie nor Molly could remember a Christmas Eve like this one. They had faint memories of being excited at the prospect of hanging up their stockings, and a memory, not so faint, of disappointment at the meagreness of their contents when they opened them; but tonight was different. In the cupboard at the side of the fireplace were parcels, some that John brought in last night, some from Christine, and others. Katie and Molly would make running dives at the lower door of the cupboard, calling, ‘I’m gonna open it, Ma! I am! I am!’
Apart from saying, ‘You dare,’ Mary Ellen took no notice of them. Her face wore a faint smile and her body seemed settled in contentment as her needles flew on the toe of a sock. They were the last few rows of a pair she was knitting for Shane. Why had she thought of knitting him socks for Christmas she didn’t know—she could not remember ever giving him anything at Christmas, except the first Christmas they were married. She wouldn’t, of course, say that these were for a Christmas box; she would just put them out with his change of clean underclothes. Perhaps he would notice them, perhaps he wouldn’t.
She glanced up as John came out of the bedroom, and she had to say to Katie, ‘Leave John be, hinny, he’s got to go out . . . Stop clambering! you’ll dirty his suit.’
‘Give me a shuggy before you go. Come on, John, just one,’ Katie coaxed.
‘Well mind, just one . . . that’s all.’
‘You’re worse than she is,’ said Mary Ellen as John sat down and crossed his knees and stuck a foot out.
Katie clambered on to the foot, and he held her hands as he hoisted her up and down. And she giggled and shouted, ‘But say it! You’re not saying it!’
‘Give over, Katie, John’s got to go out! You’ll be packed off to bed, mind . . . Oh, what’s the good! You’re worse than she is,’ Mary Ellen exclaimed, as John began to chant with each movement of his foot:
Father Christmas soon will come
Laden with all treasures.
I would like a boat to sail,
A rocky horse with a bushy tail,
A farthing or a spade and pail;
Katie wants a big, fat . . . dol-ly.
After the final heave, Katie fell off his foot, laughing, and John’s eyes were drawn, for a moment to Molly. She was standing to one side, smiling, yet wistful. He suddenly realised he’d never had much time for Molly, and, scatterbrain as she was, she felt it. He saw it in her face now as she stood there. Impulsively, his hand went out and he pulled her to him, saying, ‘Come on, you big soft lass,’ and, laughing and giggling, she sat on his foot.
‘Well I never. What next, I wonder!’ Mary Ellen’s tone was half laughing, half derisive.
Molly wasn’t so easy to lift as Katie, and before John was half-way through the rhyme she had tumbled off on to the floor, where she lay, clasping Katie, helpless with laughter.
Mary Ellen, trying not to allow her gaze to linger on this son of hers, who was looking so grand, said, ‘Get yourself away, lad, or else I’ll not get them to sleep the night. And if you should see Mick, send him in.’
John put on his coat, saying, ‘Well, expect me when you see me—I may have to follow the men to Newcastle to get the ducks. It’s six you want, isn’t it?’
He left the house with his mother joining in with the laughter of the children. The sound made him happy. There was something different about this Christmas . . . Well, so there should be. A gaffer! He breathed deep of the icy air. But it wasn’t that alone. There was a difference both inside and outside the house. Perhaps the difference lay in himself; life at last seemed to be opening.
He walked briskly to Tyne Dock, and stood waiting for the Shield’s tram. The snow plough had been out, and the space opposite the dock gates had the appearance of land on which the grab had been at work; pale grey mounds lined the pavement, and the hurrying figures, passing in and out of the lamplight and the light from the bars, looked jet black against them. Some iron ore men, still in their working clothes, came out of a bar and hailed John: ‘Why, man, you look as if you’ve had some money left you. Pinched our wages already? Or has the North-Eastern left you a prop boat?’
‘Aye, they offered me one for Christmas, but I told them what to do with it: “A Benisaf or nothing” I said.’
There was loud laughter at this. ‘I bet
you did too! Well, a happy Christmas, and many of them,’ they called as they moved away. ‘And see we have full shifts for full bellies next year, mind.’
‘Many of them,’ John answered.
As he watched their unwieldy figures disappear into the darkness, he felt a thousand miles removed from them. They were good enough fellows in their way, but with one thought dominating them all . . . plenty of work, which meant plenty to eat and drink, or the reverse process. But somehow he didn’t feel of them. It wasn’t just since he had been made a gaffer, he had been feeling like this for some time past. Was it since he had got this coat? He didn’t know; something had changed him . . .
The aisles of the open market were congested with buyers, and the shouts of the stall-holders were deafening. John saw that it would be hours yet before the stuff was sold at anywhere near his price. Ten or eleven would be the time to come back. So he walked down King Street, debating whether he should go to the second house at the Empire or the Tivoli. To whichever place he went, he couldn’t go in the threepennies, not in this rig-out. It would mean the sixpennies, or even the ninepennies. That was one drawback of being dressed-up.
‘Hallo, Mr O’Brien.’ Mary Llewellyn stood in front of him, her arms laden with parcels.
‘Good evening, Miss Llewellyn.’
They were blocking each other’s path and that of the other pedestrians as, after the greeting, they stood mutely surveying each other, surprise showing in both their faces, as if this was the last place one would have expected to find the other.
‘Did you ever see such a crowd?’
‘No, I never have.’
John hadn’t noticed the crush before, but now they seemed to be hemmed in on all sides.
‘Are you doing your last-minute shopping?’ she asked him.
‘No . . . yes . . . Well’—his eyes twinkled—‘I’m hanging around until they give the ducks away in the market.’ And as he said it, he wondered why it cost him nothing in pride to admit such things to her.
They laughed together, and one irritated shopper exclaimed, ‘If you want to stand laughing your heads off clear off the flags and let people pass.’
The Fifteen Streets Page 12
