Trinidad Street

by Patricia Burns

  ‘Sounds better than bottling pickles or getting scalded by the jam,’ Mum said. ‘Meet a nicer class of young man, too.’

  They all knew what she meant: nicer than Archie Turner.

  Ellen was silent. She wanted to go to Millwall Central. Wanted it like she’d never wanted anything in her life before. But she knew it was impossible.

  Her mother put the tea down and gathered Ellen to her.

  ‘You’re a good girl. I’d like to see you with a job in an office. Real nice, that’d be. Ladylike. You deserve a chance to better yourself, get away from what some have to suffer. We’ll afford it somehow. I can always get a job if I have to. It’s not as if you little ’uns are babies any more. But we’ll have to see what your dad says. Wait till he’s had his tea. Then we’ll see.’

  For several moments Ellen could not take it in. It was too good to be true.

  ‘Oh, Mum – do you mean it? Do you really?’

  ‘’Course. Maybe I’m daft, but of course I mean it. Someone in our family with an office job! It’s worth going out ship scrubbing for that.’

  ‘Oh, Mum! Oh, thanks.’ Ellen stood up and flung her arms round her mother’s neck. She was nearly there.

  2

  TOM JOHNSON STRAIGHTENED up and kneaded the small of his back where it creaked in protest at the long day’s work. Old, he was getting old. He couldn’t take it like he used to. Half his life he had been here now, here at the West Indias, or over at the East Indias, and very occasionally – if times were bad – down at the Millwall. He had settled into his own specialization and was recognized as a skilful shipworker. Thousands upon thousands of tons he must have shifted in his time.

  The raw products of the great British Empire and the untamed world beyond came rolling up the Thames in the holds of great timber sailing vessels and huge iron steamships, and an army of dockers unloaded them to be fed into the hungry factories of London. Wool from Australia, fruit from South Africa, coffee from Brazil, sherry from Spain, cotton from America, it all came ashore to be heaved into the warehouses by Tom and his like and disgorged again to feed and clothe and service the sprawling capital and the people of the lands and towns.

  The romance of it all had fired his imagination once, but it was all too familiar now. Just another day to be got through, endless hours of lifting and carrying, with arms and legs and back aching more with each sack or bale or keg. He knew how to conserve his strength, how to lift so as to put as little strain as possible on his body, how to pace himself through the day so that the foreman had nothing to hold on him. But the fact remained that he was forty-one and past his prime. Today he had been brought face to face with the fact that he could no longer keep up with the younger men. Here he was on the quay, trundling a truck, the two-wheeled carrying device used for taking goods into the warehouses or transit sheds. He, Tom Johnson, was down amongst the quay workers because he was not quick and strong enough to work on the ship any more. His pride had taken a bad blow, but it was the same pride that stopped him from showing it.

  He glanced now at the foreman, king of the quay. They were old enemies, Tom and Alf Grant, well matched, but Alf always had the last say since it was he who had the power. He was the one who called the men on at the start of the day. He could get a man blacked so that no one would take him on.

  Alf had his back to him, seeing to the gang on the forward hold, and Tom could relax for a moment.

  ‘Grand sight, ain’t she?’ An old sailor stopped by his side, his white beard sticking out like wire wool all round his face. He was looking up at the ship they were unloading, pride in his seamed face.

  ‘Yes – grand.’ Tom rolled his fists into his stiff and aching back.

  ‘You should see her under full sail, rolling through the roaring forties. Nothing to beat her bar the clippers. Wonderful old girl, the Ariadne. Wonderful.’

  Tom cast an eye over the elegant lines of the windjammer – her four tall masts; her tangle of rigging; the long yellow bowsprit jutting along the quayside, and under it the garishly painted figurehead of a half-naked woman. Round her in the oily waters of the dock clustered a bunch of lighters and sailing barges receiving cargo to take up the river or round the coast to quays and small ports, waterside factories and warehouses. Beyond her a line of ships was moored, nearly all sailormen, passenger and cargo, discharging their loads on to the dockside before going round empty to the export pool to fill up with manufactured goods for the outward journey.

  The old sailor was still talking. ‘I remember when we was coming out of Rio with a cargo of coffee – ’88 that would’ve been, or ’89 – and we just . . .’

  Tom was not listening. The ship did not hold his attention. She was right enough, but when all was said and done, just another set of holds to be unloaded. It was the men on the quayside he was watching, the sweating gangs toiling amongst the snaking ropes, the unstable heaps of cargo, the tall cranes with their dipping beaks and swinging chains, the slippery cobbles and the leaky barrels of inflammable oil or dangerous chemicals. They were the ones who laboured, who spent the strength of their youth for a tanner an hour. They were the ones who should have the power, not Alf Grant and the bosses. Down the line the money went, hand to hand with everyone taking his cut, till it came to the bottom, where the real work was done – with the dockers. Not much left for them. But they were only casual labourers, after all, and there were plenty more at the gate. They didn’t matter. It made him sick, the way they were treated. Tom was a lucky one, a ‘Royal’, taken on in preference to the masses for any job that was going. The foremen knew that he was strong and reliable, that he could be trusted and that he knew what he was doing. He could be sure of getting work if work there was, and his family never went cold or hungry. But his sympathy was with the casuals. His days were concentrated on fighting for a better deal for the men on the quay.

  Tom’s eyes sought his son, up on the deck. The vessel still had the old-fashioned hand winches, and Will was up there as winchman with one of the O’Donaghue boys. Stocky and straight-backed with well-muscled shoulders, he gave an illusion of height, though only in contrast with the undersized race that grew up in the streets of the Island. He was grown bigger than Tom, with a mind and a life of his own. A fine man, his Will, but wild. He had hoped Will would get a steady job, free from the hand-to-mouth life of the docker, but regular work had not agreed with him. He’d got the sack from five different places before taking his chances here at the docks. Even now he was larking about with Pat O’Donaghue; Tom could hear his laugh ringing out. ‘Don’t worry yourself,’ his wife Martha would say. ‘Don’t worry, he’s a good boy. He’ll settle, now he’s a married man. That Maisie’s a nice little thing. She’ll be a decent wife and a good mother.’ Tom hoped she was right.

  ‘Young fools.’ Brian O’Donaghue’s voice sounded at his shoulder, just a faint hint of a brogue softening the London accent. ‘Get themselves thrown off.’

  ‘No sense,’ Tom said.

  Both men watched their sons with a mixture of irritation and pride.

  ‘Ah well, you’re only young once now, aren’t you?’ Brian was tolerant. ‘Let them have their time. Never did me no harm. Though you were always the serious one, now I call it to mind.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Things had been much worse when he had started work. That was before the great strike. At least now if you worked for an hour you were paid a tanner. But there was a long way to go yet. There was work to be done, battles to be won so that life could be better for Will, and for his unborn child.

  ‘Johnson!’ Alf Grant’s voice sliced through the rattle of machinery, through the rumble of engines, through countless human cries. ‘Johnson! Slacking again. Get back to work. I’ve no room for idle men.’

  ‘Slave-driving bastard,’ Brian muttered, without rancour.

  Tom stayed still for just long enough to save face, holding Grant’s eyes, then turned slowly to pick up the next tub of molasses.

  Up on the deck, Will Johnson and Pat O’
Donaghue battled with the heavy winches, hauling the cargo up out of the hold and down into the lighters clustered round the ship. They worked steadily for two hours or more, arms and backs straining, until a problem with the crane held up the rest of the gang. Will looked down at Alf Grant, who was blowing his top over the delay.

  ‘He’s got his hands nice and full,’ he said.

  Pat nodded and grunted in reply. They let down the next load. Will straightened up.

  ‘Oi,’ he said, ‘can you do this?’

  He stepped over to the edge of the hatch, where a narrow lip of wood about eight inches high ran all round the gaping hole. He put his booted foot up on the rim, steadied himself with his arms outstretched, then brought the other foot up and walked all the way along like a circus performer.

  ‘Easy!’

  Not to be outdone, Pat O’Donaghue started doing the same along the opposite side. The younger men whistled and clapped. Flushed with danger and success, Will and Pat bowed.

  ‘Johnson! O’Donaghue! Cut that out.’

  Grant was on to them. Fists on hips, scarlet with anger, he yelled up at them from the quayside.

  ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing, holding up the whole bloody ship?’

  Will opened his mouth and shut it again. You didn’t argue with Alf Grant. He’d have you thrown off as soon as look at you. But on the other hand he was damned if he was going to say sorry like a schoolboy. While he was still standing there making his mind up, his father joined in.

  ‘They ain’t holding up nothing, Mr Grant. It’s the crane what’s stopping us,’ he pointed out.

  Grant rounded on him. ‘It ain’t stopping them, Johnson, and well you know it. They should be working them winches. It’s idleness what’s stopping them.’

  He bawled up at Will and Pat to get on with it, and set about Tom again.

  ‘And as for you, Johnson, I had it up to here with you. You’re for it now. You put your bloody nose in where it’s not wanted once too often. I got no more room for troublemakers like you.’

  Will glanced at his friend. ‘Bloody hell, he’s for it now, my old man.’

  The pair of them went back to the winch. The break had given them enough energy to carry on to the end of the long day.

  The crane was sorted out and the work resumed. Grant stationed himself near Tom’s gang and barked every time one of them so much as paused for a breather. It was a grim afternoon, and at six o’clock it was practically dark. The cargo of glucose tubs was all neatly stacked in the huge warehouse. The men dumped their last burdens, flexed their aching muscles and knocked off. Will and Pat joined their fathers and Pat’s brother Declan, ready to walk out together.

  ‘Johnson!’ Grant came striding along the quay, looking like the cat that had got the cream. ‘You’re wanted in the gov’nor’s office.’

  Tom wooden-faced, met his eye.

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll find out.’ The man was grinning at him, malicious satisfaction oozing from every pore.

  Tom was not to be intimidated. ‘All right, all right. There’s a thing or two I want to see the gov’nor about and all.’ He turned to Will and the O’Donaghues. ‘Get one in for me. I’ll see you at the Kingsbridge.’

  ‘Right you are, mate,’ Brian agreed.

  Will watched his father walk off with Alf Grant and hesitated, wondering whether to wait for him.

  ‘You coming, Will?’ Pat O’Donoghue called to him.

  He took one more look at the retreating back, and recognized by the set of his father’s shoulders that this was going to be a long session. He didn’t need him as much as Will needed a drink.

  ‘Yeah, coming,’ he called back.

  He fell in beside the O’Donaghues as they joined the flood of men heading for the dock gates: small men, ill dressed in stained jackets and ragged trousers, all wearing flat caps and heavy much-mended boots, and slouching because it was the end of the day, wanting only to get out, to get paid, to get home or to the pub.

  There was a queue at the main gate as they all funnelled under the impressive great archway with its bronze model of a three-masted sailing ship on top. Ahead of them the dock police stopped a man.

  There was an argument before he was led away to be searched. Will watched him with detached sympathy. He knew the man by sight; he lived over in Cubitt Town somewhere. He hoped the police were picking on him just because they didn’t like the look of him. They often did that. You were searched and questioned and set free. They did it to try and stop you nicking stuff, but it didn’t work. Everyone pocketed things, it was part of the game.

  Out in the grey street at last, they walked along by the high prisonlike wall of the dock until they came to the pub where the contractor paid out. They queued again, this time for their wages, had the customary squabble over hours, felt the warm weight of silver in their pockets. Six shillings for twelve hours’ labour. Riches.

  The O’Donaghues managed to get a table while Pat lined the drinks up.

  ‘Here y’are, Will, one for you and one for your dad.’

  ‘He won’t be in for a while,’ Will said. ‘You know what he’s like. Arguing the point with the gov’nor, most like.’

  They all nodded. They knew Tom Johnson. But they had hardly finished agreeing on it before Will spotted him in the pay queue, and he did not look like a man who had just won a battle. Will sampled his beer, looking at his father over the top of the glass. He was standing hunched up, not speaking to anyone, which in itself was unusual. His dad was a great one for talking. Will wondered what was up.

  At length Tom appeared, slumped down on the seat they had saved for him and took a long pull at his brown ale. Brian handed him a cigarette.

  ‘It’s a dog’s life,’ he said.

  The others nodded in solemn agreement.

  More pints arrived on their table. Pat, Will and Declan had a race to see who could down a pint the fastest. The pub was crowded. People were standing between the tables. It was Friday and there was only one more day till sainted Sunday off. Caps were tipped back, jackets unbuttoned, faces glowed red. Quite a few men had started in on the serious drinking, glasses of gin in front of them. A roar of laughter came from one corner and the joke was repeated from mouth to mouth. Brian was telling a long tale about his bantam cock.

  ‘– So I shut the little bleeder up, but damn me if he didn’t get out again. Must’ve pecked away at the catch. His own hens ain’t enough for him, y’see. Half a dozen I got in that run, half a dozen little beauties! Bright eyes, lovely feathers. Won the Bantam hen prize last summer in the show with one of ’em, I did.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Declan pushed his chair back and heaved himself to his feet. ‘I’m going to throw up.’

  Of one accord, Pat and Brian grabbed his arms and started to shoulder a path towards the door, shouting at people to get out of the way. But they were too late. There were shouts of protest, curses. Those out of the way laughed and jeered. The landlord sent a barmaid over to clean up.

  ‘If that boy of yours can’t hold his drink, don’t bother bringing him in here,’ he grumbled.

  Brian traded insults and manoeuvred his son into the fresh air.

  ‘Finish the drinks for me, Tom,’ he called back through the crowd. ‘I’m taking the boy home. Must’ve been something he ate.’

  The empty chairs were filled, Grant’s character torn to shreds. Tom came out of his silent fit and became more like his normal self. Will almost forgot he had been worried. He looked at his father, who was leaning forward, jabbing at the sticky table top to emphasize a point he was making, a compact, sturdy man with a broken tooth and a frill of greying hair sticking out from under his cap.

  Will listened to the older men’s talk for a while. They respected his father, brought their problems and complaints to him, and trusted him to take up cudgels on their behalf. He watched as they listened to what his dad had to say, nodding sometimes in agreement. It gave him a feeling of family pride. Hi
s dad could get them all behind him. Will didn’t know quite how he did it; but if there was another strike like the one back in ‘89, his dad would be there in the thick of it, organizing the action in their part of the Island.

  His attention wandered. He didn’t care about Alf Grant, or the governors. He knew he could earn a good day’s wage whenever he wanted. He was young and strong and nearly always called on. A day’s labouring left him tired, but nowhere near exhausted. A wash and a good meal inside him and he was ready for an evening out.

  He started talking to a couple of mates about the Millwall Rovers’ chances in the next game. He felt warm and relaxed. The beer slid easily down inside him, loosening his tongue, making him feel good. Friday night. His pay hung pleasantly heavy in his pocket, his mates were game for anything, and it was almost the best time of the week.

  His dad was standing up. Will eyed the barmaid threading her way with difficulty through the crowd, collecting empties, exchanging banter. He’d fancied her for a while, with her wide smile and ripe body. He watched her as she raised her arms to lift the glasses over the heads of the close-packed men. When she did that, her full breasts moved. He envied the men she brushed against as she passed.

  ‘Coming, Will?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He would speak to the barmaid when she came over here.

  ‘Your Maisie’ll be waiting for you.’

  The words ‘Let her wait’ formed on his tongue, but something in his father’s tone made him swallow them. He dragged his eyes away from the woman and looked at the remains of his drink, his filthy hands and grimy clothes. A wash, a good meal, an evening out and then Maisie. It was a prospect worth moving for.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.’

  He drained his glass and stood up. Perhaps he would take Maisie out with him. He followed his father out into the street.