‘Mums’ race!’ somebody yelled. ‘Let’s have a mums ‘race!’
The cry was taken up. Mothers old and young were shoved into line, protesting. But once started, they ran with a will. Alma lumbered over the winning line just in front.
‘Won by a tit,’ joked some racing expert.
There was a boys’ tug-of-war, then it was the men’s turn. Sleeves rolled up, caps on the backs of their heads, brawny dockers and labourers and lightermen heaved and sweated, their boots skidding on the cobbles. The women yelled encouragement, the children jumped up and down screaming. Ellen abandoned her new dignity and shrieked with the rest. Her father and brother, Harry and the O’Donaghues were all on one side with half a dozen others. Shoulder to shoulder they pulled, their faces contorted with effort. Pat’s foot slipped, he fell and took two others with him, the whole team was dragged forward. Their supporters groaned and jeered.
‘Get up, get up! Pull!’ Ellen yelled. ‘Pull, Harry!’
They struggled up, made a desperate effort and regained the lost ground just in time. The spectators reached fever pitch. Frightened babies screamed. Inch by inch the Johnsons’ team crept back, dragging their rivals with them. For minutes it hung in the balance, then the others seemed to tire. One of them slipped and they were heaved over the line, everyone ending in a heap on the road.
The victors were swamped with ecstatic supporters, the vanquished helped to their feet and led to the beer table. In the mêlée, Ellen saw Maisie fling her arms round Will and the pair of them hug each other, her mum kissing her dad, the O’Donaghues surrounded by family and girlfriends. Pushed this way and that by the celebrating crowd, she found the person she was seeking. People were clapping Harry on the back and congratulating him. She made to join them, but then stopped short, for there was Siobhan O’Donaghue by his side, and she was looking up into his face. A surge of jealousy, sick and bitter, possessed her. Siobhan was pretty, Siobhan could sing, Siobhan had all the boys after her. Ellen stood fixed to the spot, jostled by rowdy neighbours, staring at them. She could not tear her eyes away. Siobhan was smiling up at him. It was not a smile such as family or friends might exchange, but Ellen recognized it. It was a teasing smile, charged with invitation, but still holding back. Ellen knew, with an instinct that came with her developing body, that few men would be able to resist it. When Siobhan looked at them like that, they were hooked.
‘Come on, Ellen, don’t hang about here all day. We’re all having a drink.’
Theresa O’Donaghue linked arms with her and pulled her along the street with the flow heading for the drinks table.
Once away from Harry and Siobhan she said in Ellen’s ear, ‘Makes you sick, don’t she? She’s been through all the men in this street and all the decent ones at work, and now she’s decided to have a go at Harry. He’s been ignoring her this year past. She can’t bear that.’
Ellen looked at her, startled, recognizing a jealousy as painful as her own, but deeper and more corrosive.
‘Don’t you like her?’ she asked. ‘She’s your cousin.’
‘More’s the pity. It was a black day when she arrived in our house. I’ve got to share a bed with her. I wish she’d get herself married and move out.’
The O’Donaghues stood in an entirely new light. As a family they had always been one of the tightest knit in a community of close families. Ellen had never before known them to break ranks and admit to tensions within. She imagined having to live with Siobhan in her house, and the reasons became much clearer.
‘It must be difficult,’ she said.
‘Difficult! You don’t say. I have to see her up to her tricks morning, noon and night. And the rest of ’em think she’s wonderful. Even Mum. She thinks she’s such a nice girl, a pleasure to have around the place. I can’t stand it.’
Ellen knew what she was trying to do. She wanted Ellen on her side, someone to form a ‘we hate Siobhan’ gang, like what happened at school sometimes. But however jealous she was of Siobhan right at that moment, she did want to line herself up with Theresa. Ellen was embarrassed. Everyone round them was laughing and joking, and here was Theresa pouring out her dislike of her cousin. She tried to edge away, but Theresa still had hold of her arm.
‘Watcha, girls! What’s all the long faces for, then?’
Gerry was standing in front of them, beer glass in hand. Ellen smiled at him in relief and he stepped back in pretended surprise, jolting the group behind him.
‘It’s Ellen Johnson. Stone me, I never recognized you. What a transformation! Here, let me get you a drink. What are you having – gin? Port?’
Ellen smiled and shook her head.
‘Not ginger beer? Not now you’re a young lady. Here, I know, I’ll do you a big lemonade with a little bit of gin. How’s that? Just the ticket. And what about you, Theresa? Can’t have all this gloom on the big day. You going to dance with me later? I been waiting for a chance to ask you, but you always got all others round you . . .’
They were swept up in his patter and glasses were pushed into their hands. Ellen sipped, and decided she didn’t much like the smell that gin gave to a drink. She tried not to listen too much to Theresa, still talking in her ear, and looked about, not sure quite what to do. The children were still racing around, playing and shouting, but she was no longer one of them. The married folk were chatting amongst themselves, many of the women with babies on their hips. But she was certainly not one of them. The young people were in groups, the boys openly eyeing the girls. The girls were pretending to ignore them but shooting covert glances to see who was looking at them, and breaking into spurts of laughter. The problem was, they were all at work and she was fourteen and still at school. She was not quite one of them any more, and it made her feel uneasy.
Then Vi from across the street spotted her and called her over.
‘’Lo, Ellen, you’re looking nice. Where you get that dress from, then?’
With relief, Ellen joined them and was drawn into their discussion of clothes and boys, and who was walking out with who, and who they hoped to dance with. The others teased and patronized her, but she hardly minded that. It was all right. She was accepted into the world of young women. She listened and learned, and watched Siobhan hanging on to Harry’s arm. With the strength of the others round her, she could even cope with that better. None of them liked Siobhan.
There was a call for food, and the women disappeared into the houses. Children were sent out with plates and cutlery, then victuals were carried out to where, in the middle of the road in an uneven row, stood tables of different heights and widths but all scrubbed so clean you could eat straight off them. Bowls of eels wobbling in jelly, piles of neatly cut sandwiches, raised pork pies divided into slices, peas swimming in bright green liquor, and buns shiny with sugar were set down. Bottles of beer and lemonade and ginger beer were brought over from the stock of drinks. The crowd gathered closer. Children’s hands were slapped as they reached out to the irresistible feast. The last plate and glass was arranged. Of one accord, the whole street sat down to eat.
Everyone had made an effort to dress up for the big day. Suits had been taken out of pawn for the men, collars and ties put on, boots shined. The women had bought or borrowed or altered dresses and trimmed up their hats. Everyone wore red, white and blue. The men had favours in their buttonholes, the women ribbons and rosettes on their hats, the girls bows in their hair. Even the prams were decorated. And all along the street, front windows were adorned with flags and pictures. Trinidad Street was part of the British Empire and proud of it.
When the eating was grinding to a halt and everyone was leaning back and loosening tongues and belts, Tom stood up and made a speech. They all listened and commented and shouted out. He was a good one for speeches, was Tom, as long as he did not go on too long. He talked about the great Empire and how they, the working people, were the most important part of it. They cheered their approval.
‘And today,’ he concluded, ‘the King is being cro
wned monarch of our country. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a toast – King Edward the Seventh, may his reign be long and happy, for him and for us.’
Everyone struggled to their feet. Glasses were raised.
‘King Edward the Seventh, God bless him!’ they chorused.
The late afternoon drifted by in a happy haze of drink and laughter. Babies cried or slept in their prams, toddlers played under the tables, children ran about throwing paper and snatching ribbons, groups formed over the remains of the feast. Then as the food went down, they all began to feel the need for something different. It was too early yet for dancing, the eating was more or less over, but none of them wanted to get up and start clearing away.
‘Give us a song, Georgie,’ somebody called.
The cry was taken up. ‘Yeah, come on, Georgie. Good old Georgie.’
A small man in a checked cap and a bright yellow tie stood up, grinning with embarrassment. But it did not take much more encouragement to get him going.
‘All right, all right. What’ll it be, then?’
Suggestions were shouted out, argued over. Georgie cleared his throat and started with ‘Daisy Belle’ and soon everyone was swaying and joining in with the choruses.
When he had run through his repertoire, someone else tried to recite a monologue but got lost in the middle. Amongst good-natured barracking, he sat down. A group of girls who had been whispering fiercely amongst themselves stood up and volunteered to perform. They sang ‘Rule Britannia!’, which they had learnt at school especially for the coronation. Some of the boys insisted on singing ‘Rule Britannia, too tanners make a bob’, which resulted in a hand-to-hand fight until parents pulled the protagonists apart and calmed them down.
‘Where’s Siobhan?’ the men started to shout. ‘Let’s hear Siobhan.’
Smiling sweetly, Siobhan rose to her feet. Her black curls were pinned up under a straw boater trimmed with red, white and blue ribbons, and more ribbons decorated her delicate organdie dress. She looked young and pretty and innocent with her great blue eyes and her little round face. Even the matrons whose sons had been jilted and daughters had been deserted in favour of her softened a little. You could not believe ill of a girl who looked like that.
Siobhan judged her audience well. She was not singing for an all-Irish crowd now, but a group of Londoners in patriotic mood. Instead, she chose popular music-hall numbers and brought tears to the eyes as her clear voice soared to the rooftops in lilting melodies and sentimental words, then got them all going with a cracking rendition of ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Van’. Only the unmarried girls sat stony-faced and unmoved. The audience cheered and clapped and shouted for more; but with the guile of a born performer, she left them wanting.
Nobody felt up to following that. Siobhan was definitely top of the bill. Chairs were pushed back and people got slowly to their feet, agreeing that so far it was the best party they had ever been to. The remains of the food were cleared to one side, plates and glasses and cutlery taken indoors. The women and children washed up, the men rearranged the tables and chairs in groups in a rough rectangle. Babies were changed and fed, everyone freshened up and drifted back into the street for the next part of the entertainment.
Harry ran a wet comb through his hair. However much he tried to flatten it into fashionable sleekness, the wiry curls always sprang back. He gave up, turning his attention to tying the bow tie he had bought especially for the occasion. That was more successful. He stepped back to look in the tarnished mirror over the kitchen range, and nodded with satisfaction. The grey suit his cousin Gerry had put him on to fitted pretty well now his mother had done a few alterations.
His father drifted through from visiting the privy, holding a bottle by the neck.
‘Blimey,’ he commented. ‘Getting too bloody posh to live with us, you are.’
Harry ignored him. His father was drunk, had been since midday, but there was little danger from him today, not with the whole street looking on. Besides, Harry was now a grown man of nineteen. If need be, he could deal with his father.
Florrie came in to peek at herself in the mirror and stopped short at the sight of him.
‘Coo, you look a real toff,’ she said.
Harry grinned and tweaked her nose. ‘You look pretty yourself, little ’un.’
‘I’m not a little ‘un’ she said, offended. ‘I’ll be leaving school next year.’
‘Only joking. You look a real corker, honest.’
Mollified, Florrie studied her appearance. ‘You going to dance with Siobhan, then?’
‘Might do.’
‘She likes you.’
Harry looked at his sister. She was sharp, was Florrie, and growing up fast.
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked, though he knew the answer.
‘She’s been hanging round you all day.’
‘Has she really? I never noticed.’
‘You going to dance with her, then?’ Florrie asked again.
‘I’ll dance with you, if you like.’
Florrie gave him a hug and he responded, clasping her bony little body, and fear unexpectedly caught at his heart. She was too thin and her skin had a blueish tinge even in the summer. With their mother so often unable to cope, Florrie had to take on responsibilities beyond her strength.
Floating in from outside came the plaintive sound of Tim O’Keefe tuning up his fiddle. Today was a time to forget worries and fears.
‘Come on, sis,’ Harry said, ‘it’s starting out there.’
The children were already scampering about, the little girls holding hands and dancing together while the boys looked on and jeered. Loony Mike capered around by himself, singing cheerfully out of tune. Gradually, some of the married couples joined in – Mr and Mrs Johnson, his sister Maisie and Will. He spotted Siobhan sitting amongst the O’Donaghues. She caught his eye then looked away, feigning indifference. Desire stirred within him. You could not see her and not want her when everything about her was so inviting. That soft, full body, that smile seemed to offer everything. But he knew her for what she was – a tease. She would lead a man on until he hardly knew what he was doing, until she had him on a string, then she would clam up. Siobhan was giving nothing away. She was waiting for someone richer than Trinidad Street could offer. Harry caught hold of his sister’s hand.
‘Come on, Florrie,’ he said. ‘Let’s show ’em how it’s done.’
He polka’d over the cobbles with her, then tripped round more sedately with his aunt Alma. Family duty done, he paused to see who everyone else was dancing with. It was then that he noticed Ellen Johnson. She was skipping round in Gerry’s arms, face flushed with pleasure, skirts whirling out from her neat waist. Harry watched her, fascinated. He had always thought of her as just a schoolkid, his sister’s friend, nothing remarkable. Now he saw her in a new light. She had grown up. She had a tasty figure. With her heart-shaped face and bright smile, she was a very pretty girl.
The tune came to an end with a long-drawn-out chord on Tim’s violin. Dancers and watchers clapped. Gerry made an exaggerated bow, Ellen curtseyed in response and they both walked back to the Johnsons’ table, laughing. As if pulled by a string, Harry got up and strolled over. Maisie was there, sitting on Will’s knee, both of them sharing the same glass. He nodded at them, said a word or two to Tom and Martha, then turned to their daughter.
‘Hullo, Ellen. I hardly would’ve known you if you hadn’t been with your family.’
She looked up at him from under the brim of her straw hat. ‘That’s what they all say,’ she told him.
‘Right little cracker, ain’t she?’ Gerry said. He stood beside her chair with a proprietorial air.
‘Changed a bit since she wore a tam-o’-shanter,’ Harry said.
He saw a softer light come into the hazel eyes as she remembered.
‘Like to have the next dance?’ he asked, holding out his hand.
Tim, another half-pint safely beneath the belt, struck up again.
/> ‘She’s dancing with me,’ Gerry told him.
Ellen stood up. ‘Who says? You never asked.’ She took Harry’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
He put his arm round her waist and it felt right. She was light as a feather as they moved round together, her eyes shining with enjoyment. He was acutely aware of the curves of her body, the slide of her dress beneath his hand as she danced. Most intoxicating of all was her pleasure.
‘Ain’t it lovely?’ she cried. ‘Oh, I do love parties. I’ve never been to anything as good as this.’
‘There was the jubilee,’ Harry said. ‘And weddings. We had a good party for Will and Maisie, remember.’
‘That was different. I was only a kid then.’
‘You’re not a kid now.’
He let go of her with reluctance as the music stopped. They both clapped automatically, but their eyes never left each other’s face.
‘Have the next one with me?’ Harry asked.
They danced the next one, and the one after. Twilight deepened into evening, and people brought lamps and candles from their houses and set them on the tables. Tim O’Keefe, complaining of aching arms and shoulders, stopped for a rest. Harry joined the Johnsons as everyone flopped down for a long drink and polished off the remains of the food. Toddlers who had fallen asleep across chairs or under tables were scooped up and carried in to bed.
Renewed and refreshed, the party hotted up. Old and young made a circle and sang ‘Knees up, Mother Brown’ and ‘Hands, Knees and Bumps-a-Daisy’. Panting and laughing, they called for the hokey cokey and did it three times, faster and faster. The sweat poured down their faces, women screamed and men whistled with excitement. Scarlet in the face, her hair coming down, Alma lifted up her skirts to show white frilly petticoats. Slowly, seductively, she swayed from side to side. The crowd caught its breath and watched, hypnotized. Her throaty voice rolled across the street – ‘Ta – ra – ra boom-de-ay, ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay . . .’ With a roar, they all joined in, grannies and children, friends and enemies, married and single, all were caught up with the animal exuberance of the song, swaying, singing, dancing with abandon until at last they were exhausted.
Trinidad Street Page 8
