Trinidad Street

by Patricia Burns

  ‘Oh – oh – I’m going to die –’ Ellen collapsed on to her seat, her breasts heaving, her face flushed. Her hat had long since fallen off and her hair was beginning to come down. Harry wanted very much to take her in his arms and kiss her, but not here.

  ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ he offered.

  ‘Thanks – anything – water.’

  He found the last drop of lemonade and she drank it gratefully. He leaned over the table, whispering so that her parents would not hear.

  ‘Come for a walk with me? We could go down to the river.’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, now. Just you and me.’

  Understanding dawned. Caution and daring warred in her eyes. Then she looked away.

  ‘I can’t. Not with the party on.’

  ‘Here, Harry.’ Martha was calling to him across the table. She pushed two mugs in his direction. ‘Go and see if you can find us something to put in these, there’s a good boy.’

  Reluctantly, he complied.

  When he got back, Ellen had disappeared.

  ‘She’s gone out the you-know-where,’ Daisy informed him. ‘She said she’ll be back in a minute.’

  Tim O’Keefe had started playing again, a slow melody. Couples were drifting into the dancing area, shuffling around close to one another. The evening was drawing to an end. After the excesses of the group dancing, everyone wanted to pair up. Any pretence at proper steps had ended. They just held on to each other and moved slowly to the rhythm of the tune on the fiddle.

  Harry stood watching them with his hands in his pockets, feeling empty and left out. And then Siobhan was at his side. She looked up at him, lips parted, a pulse beating in her neck.

  ‘Aren’t you dancing?’ Her voice was low and inviting.

  ‘No.’

  She swayed nearer. He could feel her breath.

  ‘Don’t you want to?’

  He did want to. But he also wanted Ellen.

  ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘If you mean Ellen, then Gerry went off at about the same time.’

  He looked wildly about, a sense of betrayal churning within. Gerry was nowhere to be seen. He remembered Gerry’s possessiveness earlier in the evening and how he had cut him out. So Gerry had been waiting all this time to get her back. He would sort Gerry out the moment he reappeared. He wasn’t going to let his cousin get away with that. But even as he thought it, Siobhan moved slightly. Her breast brushed lightly against his arm, sending a thrill of desire through him. He put an arm round her waist.

  ‘Come on, then, what are we waiting for?’ he said.

  She kept a slight distance from him at first, holding his shoulders, talking to him. But he could feel the heat of her body through the fine fabric of her dress, the movement of her hips.

  The tune ended, but they stayed together waiting for the next. As the fiddle sang again, he caught sight of Gerry sitting down and handing his mother a drink. Over Siobhan’s shoulder he looked for Ellen, but could not see her. Siobhan moved closer, sliding her arms round his neck, leaning her body against his. He ran his hands down her back and pressed her tighter. Her black curls brushed against his cheek, faintly scented.

  The first he saw of Ellen again, she and Gerry were dancing together. Close by, Will passed him with Maisie draped round him and gazed at Siobhan with undisguised lust. The music, the dancing, the soft body next to his were all building into a burning need. He bent his head slightly to speak in Siobhan’s ear.

  ‘There are too many people here. Come away with me?’

  She looked up at him, a slight expression of surprise on her face.

  ‘Come away? What sort of girl do you think I am?’

  ‘The most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. Come with me, Siobhan.’

  ‘They’ll all see.’

  ‘No they won’t. You go first, pretend you’re going out the back. I’ll wait around for a bit then meet you.’

  And as he knew she would, she agreed.

  It was dark in the alleyway behind the houses, with even darker shadows of impenetrable black. Harry groped his way along.

  ‘Siobhan?’ he called softly. ‘You there, darling?’

  He heard a movement up ahead, then as his eyes adjusted, he saw a shape detach itself from the wall.

  ‘Here.’

  The soft brogue was unmistakable. He made towards her, senses straining. He caught the scent of her, then his fingers, running along the walls, met her shoulder. He clasped her in his arms, his mouth finding hers.

  She responded eagerly at first, her lips opening to his. She was all that those inviting glances and provocative moves had promised. Her arms tightened round him and he could feel and hear the quick rise and fall of her breathing. He ran his hands down her back, over her buttocks, pressing her closer to him, the need rising within him. He felt a slight resistance in her then, a holding back, but that only made her more exciting. He wanted that soft body, his hands guessing at what lay beneath the layers of dress and petticoat.

  He propped his shoulders against the wall and pulled her with him so that she was leaning along the length of his body. She sighed and rubbed herself against him, and for a measureless time they seemed to be in harmony, each needing the other, each taking pleasure in the other. He revelled in the soft skin of her neck and shoulders, so silky against his work-hardened hands, but as he tried to reach inside her dress she broke away.

  ‘No – I’m a good girl, I am.’ Her voice was sharp with self-righteousness.

  ‘Siobhan!’

  He felt sick with the pulsing anger and frustration.

  She was moving in the shadows. He guessed she was adjusting her dress, smoothing back her hair. His hands opened and closed. He could easily take hold of her, insist she stayed, but he had enough control left not to. Then pride took over. She was not going to have him on a string.

  ‘I’ll go back first. You’d better wait a bit,’ he told her.

  There was not a tremor in his voice. He was pleased with himself.

  ‘Oh – yes.’

  She sounded faintly surprised. He smiled to himself in the darkness, a grim stretching of the mouth. She was expecting him to plead, to bargain, even to get angry and start using his strength. She could deal with all of that and still stay on top. But he had refused to play her game. He had opted out, and she did not know how to react.

  ‘And mind you do wait.’

  No answer.

  He left her there. One day, he vowed as he made his way back to the street, one day he would have her, but on his terms. Until then, she was not going to whistle at him and have him come running like a dog. When the time came, it would be the other way round.

  People were still dancing in the square of tables, but there were fewer of them now. Harry sat down with the rest of his family, who hardly noticed him arrive. His eyes went immediately to Ellen. She was still dancing with Gerry, her head on his shoulder.

  All the anger came back. He had ruined his chance with Ellen. His cousin had more sense. Gerry had got in there the moment the opportunity arose. Harry watched them. That was where he should be, not out the back playing Siobhan’s games.

  The tune came to an end with a long-drawn-out note. The couples drifted back to their tables. Tim O’Keefe sat down. That was it. The Trinidad Street coronation party was over bar the tidying up. The King had been well and truly welcomed to his throne. There were one or two half-hearted attempts at taking things into the houses, but on the whole people were happy to leave them in the street. Nobody was going to come along in the night and steal them.

  Harry went across to the Johnsons, who were drifting back to their door.

  ‘Ellen.’

  She looked up.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She spoke with exaggerated unconcern. ‘I thought you’d found other things to do.’

  Harry glanced at Gerry, who was talking to Martha.

  ‘I thought you did.’

  Ellen shrugg
ed. ‘Well, we’re both all right then, ain’t we?’

  She turned her back on him and started saying good night to Gerry. She did not speak to him again.

  The Johnsons went indoors, Gerry smirked at him and ambled off to his house.

  Harry stood in the quiet street, hands in pockets, looking at the closed door of the Johnsons’ house.

  2

  TOM JOHNSON WAITED behind the chain. Around and behind him maybe two hundred men jostled and shoved. Work had been slack the last week or so, with berths lying empty in the dock, so once a ship was spotted approaching the lock gates the word flew. Small boys ran to tell fathers, the intricate networks of family and street were alerted, and men who had been idle for days began to converge on the gates.

  Thanks to a tip-off from Harry Turner, Tom had been one of the first, dragging Archie along with him.

  ‘What’s the point? There’s always a hundred there before me,’ Archie complained.

  ‘Not today there won’t be,’ Tom told him. ‘Not since your lad’s tipped us the wink.’

  ‘I’m getting too old for this caper.’

  ‘You’re no bloody older than me, mate, and I don’t rely on my missus and kids to support me.’

  And just as Tom knew he would, Archie rose to the bait.

  ‘Who says I live off my missus and kids, eh? Who says that?’

  ‘Nobody will if it ain’t true.’

  Archie was red in the face, glaring at him. ‘It ain’t my fault if our Harry’s working regular, is it? And it ain’t my fault if there’s no ships in. If there ain’t no ships in, I can’t work.’

  ‘There’s one coming in now,’ Tom pointed out. ‘So shift y’self. We’re wasting time. There’s plenty more want that job.’

  He finally got Archie moving.

  It was Alf Grant’s quay. As he waited, Tom tried to assess his chances of being taken on. He had not worked for Grant since the day three years ago when he had lost his preference job. It was a long shot, but there was nothing else going and he had to try it.

  ‘When are you going to send that girl of yours out to work?’ Archie asked.

  ‘When she leaves school.’

  ‘Bleeding stupid idea, keeping her on when she’s old enough to earn a bob or two. What’re you trying to do – set y’self up above the rest of us?’

  ‘I’m trying to do the best for my kids. She’s got a head on her shoulders. She deserves a chance.’

  Archie grunted. Tom waited, ready to crush him if he dared say anything else. Neighbour or not, he had had enough of Archie. The man had no pride in himself. All the street knew it was Harry who was providing for that household.

  The crowd was packing in behind him. He could feel the tension mounting. Men dressed like himself in flat hats and loose trousers, worn jackets and collarless shirts stood looking at the gates in the forbidding wall, men with gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes, all waiting for the foreman to appear with the precious handful of tickets. Waiting at home for them were hungry children and anxious wives. They all needed this day’s work. The line at the front shifted and bulged as those at the back tried to get through and the early comers resisted them. Two policemen appeared, to a chorus of mingled cheers and jeers.

  Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Tom nursed his anger. It was all wrong, this system. He had been here for two hours now. Those who did not get work would then wait till eleven in the hope of a second call-on, before finally going home empty-handed. They nearly all had grumbling bellies. No wonder the police had turned up.

  A drizzling rain began to fall. Autumn brought no glorious change of leaf colour in these nearly treeless streets, only greasy paving stones and a threat of a cold winter. The one advantage in the drop of temperature was that the smells were not so bad – the stink of river and factories not so noticeable once the summer was over. Tom turned up the collar of his jacket. Around him there was a muttering of complaints.

  ‘Where’s this ship got to, then? They must’ve got her tied up by now. What’s the delay?’ the man next to Tom asked.

  ‘Dunno, mate. P’raps they’re just keeping us here to make us all the more grateful for being taken on.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past them.’ Tom indicated the mass behind them with a jerk of his head. ‘See all them? All need work. Some of ’em ain’t even dockers. If everyone joined the union, we could make sure only union men got work, then we’d get rid of all of the ragtag and bobtail who come down here as a last resort. Be better for all of us.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Never got me nothing, unions.’

  Tom sighed. This was the attitude that killed all hope of better conditions.

  ‘With all these lined up here, they’re never going to give us a rise. They don’t have to, because there’s plenty as’d work for less,’ he explained patiently. ‘Tanner an hour’s been the rate for twelve years now, but they’re not going to put it up just because things cost more, are they?’

  ‘Bastards.’ The man’s face set into lines of frustration. ‘I got three sick kids at home and the wife’s expecting again in a couple of weeks. I got to get some money.’

  The gates opened. Alf Grant emerged, flanked by a pair of bruisers. The men behind the chain pushed forward. Tom braced his legs, his back. The pressure of bodies behind him was growing. Men had been crushed to death at the call-on before now.

  Tom saw Grant’s eyes run along the line, meet his for a second, then sheer away. With so many here so eager for anything, the chances of Grant taking him on seemed slim, but still he stared at the man, challenging him to make the choice.

  ‘Hobbs, Jenkins, Green . . .’

  The preference men, the ‘Royals’, came first. There were still tickets in Grant’s hand. The casuals tensed. Now was the crunch. They pressed forward. The chain was cutting into Tom in front while the weight of two hundred men bore down on his back. The blood pounded in his head and his eyes felt as if they were bulging. The crowd swayed and gave, arms waving, legs slipping. Grant went slowly. Fighting to keep upright, Tom tried to see the pattern. He knew a lot of these men and it was not necessarily the youngest and strongest Grant was picking. He sensed something odd going on. Archie was called, and the man on the other side of Tom. Still he bore into Grant with his eyes. There was one ticket left. The foreman came back and stopped in front of him.

  ‘Johnson. Not seen you for a while.’

  ‘Been working elsewhere.’

  It was difficult to talk calmly when the breath was being squeezed out of his body.

  ‘Come back to us though, have you?’

  ‘Thought I might give it a try.’

  He fooled neither of them. They both knew this was a last resort. Grant gave a mirthless smile.

  ‘Nice of you.’ He held the precious metal token just out of reach. ‘I’ll take you on, but there’s to be no trouble. Understood?’

  So he wanted to show his power, have Tom Johnson on a string.

  ‘There’ll be no trouble if no trouble’s needed.’

  For a long moment Grant appeared to consider the meaning of this. Then he held out the ticket.

  ‘Just remember,’ he warned.

  Tom tried very hard not to show his relief. He was not going to give Grant the pleasure of knowing how much he needed that ticket.

  ‘That’s all,’ Grant said to the unlucky ones. He turned and walked swiftly back towards the gates.

  Pandemonium broke out. Men were shouting and cursing in their disappointment. Just along from Tom, two were fighting over possession of a ticket, while others round them argued the point. Someone behind him grasped Tom by the shoulder.

  ‘Gimme that ticket, mate. I’m desperate. We sold everything. It’s going to be the workhouse if I don’t bring some money home today.’

  He was a small man, thin and round-shouldered. Tom was sure he knew him. He looked into a face deeply etched with lines of worry.

  ‘You know me, mate. Reggie Wilkins. We worked toget
her over the East Indias. Eight kids I got at home. Youngest is just a year old.’

  Here was greater need than his. He hesitated. Then Archie joined in.

  ‘Sell you mine.’

  ‘What?’ Tom was horrified. He never thought Archie would sink that low. But Wilkins jumped at the chance.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two bob.’

  ‘Two bob?’ Tom repeated. ‘Do you know what that means? That means you’ll be working all day for half-a-crown, three bob at the most.’

  The police were breaking up the fight. The lucky ones were making their way towards the gates. There was no persuading Wilkins. Half a crown was better than starving. Tom tramped into the docks.

  The ship looked normal enough, an old three-master somewhat the worse for wear. Tom looked up at the duty officer standing on the deck watching with his hands behind his back. A huge man with a full grizzled beard, his navy uniform jacket unbuttoned to show a vast expanse of belly, he gazed down impassively at the quayside.

  Grant was dividing out the work. Most of the Royals were put down in the hold. That was just as usual. It required skill and stamina to work fast and accurately in cramped conditions. The Royals that were left were set to receive the sets of cargo as it landed on the quay and unpack it. The riff-raff were to do the trucking, taking the stuff into the transit shed or warehouse.

  ‘Johnson.’

  Tom looked at the foreman, expecting to be deliberately humiliated by being put with the truckers.

  ‘You’re up on the deck.’

  Tom nodded, concealing all emotion behind an impassive face. The deckman was the most responsible job of the lot. On him the safety of men and cargo depended. But as he stumped off with the others to their given positions, unease still nagged at him.

  It was not until he actually got on deck that he noticed the ship’s house flag, an unfamiliar white diamond shape on a black background.

  ‘You’re not one of Eastcote’s,’ he said to the deck officer.

  The man glared at him as if he were some lower form of life, not deigning to answer.