Trinidad Street

by Patricia Burns

  Gerry let them plead with him for a while, laughing, keeping them in suspense. Alma knew – she could tell by the glow about him – that he’d done something clever and maybe foolish. At last his own pleasure with himself would let him keep them guessing no longer.

  ‘Just you wait! Just you wait till you see these.’ He disappeared briefly into the parlour and came back holding an apple box that seemed to be full of screws of newspaper. He placed it carefully on the kitchen table. Alma and the children leaned forward, Ida and Johnny squeaking with excitement, Florrie’s pinched little face eager.

  ‘What is it, Gerry? What is it?’

  With the true salesman’s cunning, he did not let them see straight away.

  ‘This was a real piece of luck. And old Rooney didn’t see it. He just did not see it.’ He sucked in his cheeks, tucked in his chin in imitation of his boss. ‘Load of rubbish, boy. What d’you want that stuff for? Throwing good money away.’

  The children giggled. It was Mr Rooney to the life. Alma looked at him with a pride that glowed and warmed and wound around her heart. He was a one, her Gerry. Sixteen years old and that bright. He’d have a shop of his own one day, she was sure of that.

  ‘But I could see a bargain when it jumped up and hit me. There was this man, you see, with a load on a cart, selling round all the shops. Got ’em from some factory what’s gone bankrupt. Now I can guess what you’re thinking: you’re thinking that if he’s been round all the shops, they’ll all have ’em in already and nobody’ll want to buy ’em off of me.’ He paused to look at his mother, but such a point had not even approached her mind. It made her prouder still that he should be two jumps ahead of her like that. Without waiting for an answer, he went on. ‘But you see, these are the seconds, the bits and bobs. I got ’em real cheap and I can sell ’em much cheaper than the shops.’

  ‘But what are they?’ Florrie begged.

  All three children’s eyes were round with anticipation; their noses crept ever nearer to the mysterious heap of newspaper. Soft footfalls crossed the room and Maisie leaned over her aunty’s shoulder, unable to resist the lure of the amazing bargain. Johnny’s fingers reached out, snatched at a loose corner. Gerry smacked him, but lightly.

  ‘Wait for it!’

  He took the top bundle from the pile and unwrapped it slowly, carefully, as if it were the Star of India.

  ‘Now, here, ladies and gentlemen – gentleman – we have a rare chance for you to buy, at a quite unbeatable and unrepeatable price, a most beautiful little portrait in the finest porcelain of – Her glorious Majesty the Queen of England!’

  With a flourish, he took off the last layer, to reveal a china figurine about four inches high in black dress and a white widow’s cap, dumpy and jowled, unmistakably Victoria though the crudely painted expression was a good deal more cheerful than most of her photographs showed her.

  ‘Er – stupid!’ Johnny sat back in disgust, sinking his scowling face into his two fists.

  But the females, to a woman, were enchanted.

  ‘Will you look at that!’

  ‘Just like her, see – got her to a T.’

  ‘Innit pretty?’

  Gerry looked round at their faces with a broad smile of satisfaction.

  ‘You got any others? They all the same?’ asked Alma.

  ‘No, no, they’re not all the same. There’s’ – he scrabbled around, produced another bundle, and unwrapped it before them – ‘His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. Good old Teddy. And’ – another search, another parcel – ‘Her Royal Highness the beautiful Princess Alexandra, God bless her, and’ – a last dip into the box – ‘His Royal Highness’s famous Derby winner, Persimmon. Now, Johnny, I think you’ll like that one, eh?’

  ‘Horse.’ The little boy took the model in one grubby hand and stroked it lovingly with a finger.

  ‘I like the Princess,’ Ida said, reaching out to touch.

  ‘So do I,’ said Florrie.

  ‘I like the Prince. He’s a jolly old cove.’ Alma smiled at the portly figure. That was just the sort of man she always fell for: generous, gregarious, all set for a good time. Unfortunately, like the Prince, they were also usually married.

  ‘I thank you one and all. You have just proved what I was sure of when I bought this lot. Ladies love a bit of china to put on the mantelpiece. Old Rooney thought they were rubbish, but I looked at them and I saw all the houses along this street, all with their knick-knacks over the fireplace. So I bought them.’

  Suspicion and a tug of fear pulled at Alma.

  ‘What with?’ she asked. Debt had sat on her shoulder for so many years. The deals with the tally-man, the trips to the pawn shop, the moonlight flits, all were a regular feature of her life. Only since the boys had gone to work had it lifted.

  Gerry, wrapping up his treasures and laying them safely away, told her not to worry. ‘I got Old Rooney to advance me the next two weeks’ wages.’

  ‘Gerry!’

  He gave her a brief hug. ‘I know, I know – where’s my keep coming from? Just hold out till tomorrow, Ma. I’ll go down Chrisp Street market and sell the lot. You see if I don’t! Treat you all to fish and chips tomorrow night.’

  The three children groaned with desire at the thought.

  But Alma was uneasy. ‘Chrisp Street? You ain’t got a licence, Gerry.’

  ‘No, nor likely to get one neither. Anyway, who wants one for one box of goods? I’ll take a lookout – Jack Johnson, he’s sharp enough.’

  ‘He’s only a kid. Take your brother,’ Alma urged. If they were both together, they’d look after each other.

  A wariness entered Gerry’s face. Alma was about to draw breath to ask why when it was gone, and she was not sure whether she had seen it at all.

  ‘You know Charlie,’ he said carelessly. ‘Always got something on. He’ll be far too busy to come and act lookout for me. No, young Jack Johnson’ll do fine. He’s always ready to earn a bob.’ He carried the box back into the parlour where it could not be tripped over. ‘Tea ready, Ma? I got to be back at the shop. Old Rooney only give me half an hour seeing as I’m not going in tomorrow. Mustn’t be late or he might change his mind.’

  With a jolt, Alma realized that there was a big problem, big enough to put the dislike between her two sons right out of her mind for the moment. Milly and her kids couldn’t be sent home yet, so that meant four extra mouths to feed. Four! Though Milly herself wouldn’t eat much and Johnny was only little, still there simply wasn’t enough to go round.

  ‘What we got, Maisie?’ she asked. Oh, the joy of being able to say that, to come in from work and have a dinner cooked. Maisie might be a wet blanket at times, but she wasn’t a bad little housekeeper.

  ‘Pea soup and rice pudding.’

  Alma thought quickly. Good thing it wasn’t fish or sausages. Soup you could share out. Water it down a bit and all.

  ‘Give Gerry his, and the nippers. Rest of us can eat when Will and Charlie come in.’ Maisie looked bothered. Alma drew her aside, so that Milly might not notice the embarrassment she and her family had caused. ‘Put a drop of water in it and give ’em a small bowlful, and use up all the bread. I’ll send out Florrie for some more before the men get in.’

  Hot and green, with little bits of bacon floating in it, the soup was served into a variety of bowls. Nearly a whole loaf of bread was cut into hunks and placed in the middle of the scrubbed deal table. The three little ones and Gerry wolfed it down in a couple of minutes. The rice pudding was brought out.

  ‘Give ’em the lot,’ Alma whispered to Maisie. ‘Florrie can get a bit of jam to put on the bread for the rest of us.’

  Milly touched Alma’s arm. ‘I’m a lot of trouble for you,’ she murmured.

  ‘No, dearie.’ She bent and put an arm round the bowed shoulders. ‘What’s a family for, for Gawd’s sake? You’re my sister, ain’t you? You done enough for me in your time. All them clothes you passed on for the boys. All them times you put us up when we was turned ou
t. What’s a drop of soup and a warm by the fire?’

  The extra expense would mean no night out at the pub tonight. That was her drinking money gone. But there was that sailor she met today. He said he’d buy her one if she went to the Ferry. Alma turned the suggestion over in her mind. She had vowed there’d be no more sailors. They were all the same, expected a girl to give everything for a drink or two. But this one was different: an older man, a widower – or so he said – and not out on the town with the rest of the crew. They’d talked together for an hour or more as she scrubbed out those cabins. She’d hardly noticed her back and her knees and her arms because they’d both been joking around and he’d told her all about things that had happened on the last voyage. Albert, that was his name Bert. Yes, she would go. After all, what was the harm? It’d give him an eyeful when he saw her all done up in her best togs. The weariness of the day fell from her with the expectation.

  First Charlie then Will came in, both of them accepting the roomful of Turners without comment. Charlie ate and went straight out again, saying he had to see a man about a dog. Maisie watched as Will washed, went upstairs, then came down dressed up for an evening out.

  ‘Going down the Puncheon with the lads,’ he said carelessly. Then, seeing Maisie’s beaten-spaniel expression, he added, ‘I ’spect you’d like to stay with your mum. Ta-ta!’

  Alma could have swung at him. That was no way to treat the girl. She’d have a word with Martha Johnson about her son, so she would. Maisie’s face crumpled. Silent tears slid down her cheeks. Sighing, Alma said goodbye to her evening out. Milly and the kids couldn’t go back till they were sure the old man was spark out, and now Maisie was in no state to cheer them up.

  Archie bloody Turner had a lot to be blamed for, she thought as she looked around at the sorry little family. There were times when having no man at all seemed a whole lot better than being saddled with a pig like him.

  ‘There, there,’ she said to Maisie, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘They’re no use crying over, any of ’em. Always let you down in the end. You’re lucky you got your family.’

  But Maisie only cried the harder. ‘I love him so much,’ she sobbed.

  ‘I know, dearie, I know. Treat you like dirt, they do, but still you can’t help loving ’em. That’s just the way it is.’

  3

  SATURDAY NIGHT AND the air was warm and stale. It had been a sultry day and the heat had soaked into the buildings and the streets. Now the bricks and the cobbles were breathing it out, air that had been used a thousand times, heavy with smuts and smoke. Children still played out in the long summer twilight, the boys at cricket with a stick and a rag ball, the girls crouching on the kerbstones absorbed in jacks or cat’s cradle. It was too warm for skipping or hopscotch. Women leaned in the doorways, arms folded across their stomachs, gossiping. Old people sat on the pavement on kitchen chairs, the women knitting or mending, the men with their pipes, watching with critical eyes the goings-on of the younger folk. They all stared, silent and suspicious, as the strangers went by. The group of young men felt the hostility and put a swagger into their walk. They were way out of their territory, but they were not going to let these people intimidate them.

  At the end of the street, light streamed from the open doors and windows of the pub, turning the day into evening. Men lingered outside with their drinks, leaning against the dark shiny tiles, laughing and joking. Children waited hopefully for ginger beer. The group of young men glanced up at the sign then shouldered their way through the locals and went in.

  The air in the pub was filled with smoke despite the open windows. The ceiling was yellow with it. The place was packed; a dense swell of voices rose from the crowd. Men in their Saturday-night best, their caps on the back of their heads and jackets unbuttoned in the heat, cradled their pints to their chests. Women done up to the nines in tight shiny dresses in bright colours sipped at gin or port and lemon. They were packed into the benches, jammed on to the chairs, standing shoulder to shoulder in between. Somewhere out of sight a piano jangled.

  The group from Trinidad Street stood just inside the door and took it all in, Harry and his two cousins Gerry and Charlie, and Will, at twenty-two the oldest by five or six years.

  ‘Popular place,’ Harry commented.

  ‘Lot of Irish,’ Will said.

  You could cut the brogue with a knife.

  ‘That’s why they brought her here, ain’t it? Brought her here because it’s an Irish pub. Harp of Erin. Stands to reason she’ll go down a treat amongst her own people, seeing as she sings all Irish songs. Gives ’em what they want to hear.’ Gerry always had all the answers.

  Charlie hunched his shoulders in impatience. ‘Are we drinking or not?’ he asked.

  They threaded their way to the bar.

  The long mahogany counter was awash with beer. Gaslight gleamed and flashed off the glasses and mirrors. Sweating barmaids laboured to keep up with the demand. Throats were dry with the heat and a week’s wages were burning holes in pockets.

  They bought their beers and eased their way out, then stood in a tight defensive group. They weren’t on Dog Island now. This was Poplar, practically foreign ground.

  Gerry looked at the crowd, cheerful, laughing, out for a good night’s spree. He saw people ready to spend, wanting to spend, people who’d laboured and sweated all week and wanted a good time. There was money to be made here, money eager and waiting to come into his hands.

  Harry was gazing at the women.

  ‘I dunno what Ma O’Donaghue would say to some of these,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t let her Theresa out dressed like that.’

  Will followed his glance. A girl quite close to them was smiling up into the face of a big navvy. Her canary-yellow dress strained across her full breasts, its ruffles quivering with the quick rise and fall of her breathing. Her face was nothing much to look at, sharp and flushed in the steamy fug with beads of sweat standing out on her forehead, but her elaborate hairstyle and low-cut dress held the promise of things to come. They drew the eye like a magnet.

  ‘You can bet she’s not Irish. They don’t let their girls flaunt themselves like that,’ Will said, taking on the role of older and more experienced man. His eyes ranged over the heads, searching for familiar faces. He did not expect to spot Siobhan, since she was small enough to be hidden in the crowd, but the O’Donaghues might be sighted.

  ‘Can’t see them anywhere,’ he said.

  ‘They ought to be here by now. I saw them set off before us,’ Harry said.

  ‘Maybe they called for some others on the way.’

  Already someone was singing over by the unseen piano, a boozy voice belting out a bawdy song. A few others joined in until it disintegrated raggedly into raucous laughter. It was too early yet. They were not ready.

  Will felt hemmed in, pinned down. Frustration began to build inside him. She must be here somewhere. All these loud voices masking hers, all these broad shoulders hiding her. If he knew where she was he could make towards her, but just pushing around the pub searching would be asking for trouble. He glared about him, hating the red faces, the sweating backs. They were fencing him off from her.

  ‘. . . Will?’

  ‘Eh?’ He realized Harry was talking to him.

  ‘Your dad getting work all right now?’

  ‘Oh.’ It was difficult to turn his attention to family matters. ‘Yeah, well, it’s summer, ain’t it? More around now. But it ain’t easy, ain’t easy for no one, getting work as a casual, and he ain’t a young man no more.’

  ‘Got his pride too, your dad. Wouldn’t take anything.’

  ‘Oh no, not Dad. He’s a sugar man, not a dock rat Only works the sugar boats. And that Alf Grant’s put the word out. There’s plenty of foremen won’t take him on now ’cos they heard he’s a troublemaker.’

  ‘Must be hard for your family.’

  ‘But you know my mum. She don’t complain. And everyone mucks in, earning this and that.’

  ‘
So Ellen’s still going to the Central in September, is she?’

  ‘Far as I know. Bloody stupid idea, if you ask me.’

  Gerry interrupted them. ‘You sure this is the place?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Harp of Erin. That’s what Pat O’Donaghue said.’

  He had been full of it, Pat O’Donaghue, boasting to anyone who’d listen how his little cousin had the sweetest voice on God’s earth, how they’d gone out of a Saturday night and she’d taken them all by storm, made strong men cry and had them all cheering and bawling for more, raising the roof, stamping on the floor.

  ‘Why don’t she sing down at the Rum Puncheon, then?’ Will had asked.

  ‘It’s not a singing pub, is it?’ Pat pointed out. ‘And you lot wouldn’t appreciate it, anyway. It’s not your common music hall stuff she does, it’s the real thing. Proper songs. Irish songs.’

  ‘Don’t mean to say we wouldn’t like to hear ’em,’ Will said.

  What he meant was he wanted to hear her. He didn’t care what she was singing. She could sing in Chinese if she wanted. He just wanted to be there.

  ‘She’s something special, is our Siobhan,’ Pat said.

  Will knew it. He’d known it from the moment he saw her. But getting close to her was another thing. She was surrounded by the O’Donaghues. He hung about each morning just to see her go off to work with her cousin Theresa, who had got her a job at Morton’s. The clothes that had marked her out as fresh off the boat had gone within the fortnight. She was dressed like all the others now, but still you could pick her out at a hundred yards. Like Pat said, she was special. The set of her head, the way she walked, that air of pride. They all wanted to get to meet her, all the men. But at first when she went out of an evening, it was up to some club at the Catholic church with the other Irish girls. Once summer came and the light evenings it was better. She would put on her best clothes and parade with a gaggle of friends, like all the other girls, glancing at the boys who gathered on the corners to whistle at them.