The noise downstairs seemed to be increasing. Peter had joined in with the row. Will swore and wrenched his tie into place. Times like this, he could not think why it was he had not gone with Siobhan that night. In fact, there was not a day when he did not regret it.
At the Turners’ house, the atmosphere was hardly any better. Archie Turner disliked weddings on principle, Milly, Johnny and even little Bob were such partisans for Harry that they did not want to go at all, but had to because Maisie was married to a Johnson and Gerry was their cousin. Florrie and Ida had mixed feelings, but did not admit to them. Both of them felt that their brother had been slighted, but they were looking forward to the social side of the day. After all, there was nothing like one wedding for bringing on another, and they each had their eye on one or other of the young male guests.
‘If you ask me, Harry’s far better off without her,’ Ida said, as she and Florrie tweaked at each other’s dresses and made last-minute adjustments to their hair.
Florrie smoothed her skirt over her narrow hips. ‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I still wish Ellen was marrying him. She’s been my friend ever since I can remember. It would’ve been nice.’
‘Can’t see how you can stay friends with her.’
Florrie did not answer. Sharp in her mind’s eye was the picture of her younger self on a winter’s evening in the street, rigid and burning with murderous hatred while Ida and Johnny clung to her, cold and frightened. Ellen had been there, trying to help, trying to give comfort. You did not turn your back on friendships like that.
‘How do I look?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘Nice,’ Ida said loyally. ‘I’ve always liked that dress. Suits you.’
‘Mm,’ Florrie said. She looked down at herself and wished she had an hourglass figure like that Siobhan O’Donaghue instead of a skinny body hardly different from her brother Johnny’s. Men did like something to get hold of. ‘You look lovely,’ she said.
Ida smirked. Like her mother and Maisie, she had a surface prettiness that was now coming into its short flowering. She had great hopes of this wedding. She had fancied Jack Johnson for ages and this was a good chance to catch his eye.
Down in the kitchen, Harry was also getting ready, with such an air of aggressive isolation about him that the entire family gave him a wide berth, insofar as that was possible in a tiny house inhabited by seven people. With meticulous care, he slicked down his blond curls, tied his narrow blue and red tie and brushed the shoulders of his navy suit. He tried not to think of the reason for all this careful preparation. It was just his cousin, getting married. That was all. He had a well-built wall about his emotions now, and he was not going to let anyone see it breached today. He had not been at home when the confrontation between Ellen and Siobhan had taken place next door, but naturally there had been plenty of kind people ready to fill him in with the details. So Siobhan had done Ellen a favour by coming to the Masons’ place that day. Fine. If that was the way she saw it, then it was a favour to him too. Gerry was welcome to her.
At number forty, Alma was already close to tears. She was still in an old dress with her hair in a plait down her back, and she was twitching around the kitchen in a state of high nervous tension, picking things up and putting them down.
‘I still can’t see why you can’t come and live here,’ she said.
Gerry sighed. They had been through this a dozen times or more.
‘Mum, I know there’s room enough here, but I just wanted us to have a place of our own.’ He cast about for something new to say, something that would really convince her. ‘It’s like proving I’ve got somewhere, that I’ve made it.’
‘But everyone knows you got somewhere. Who else round here has got a market stall? I just don’t see why you got to move out.’
‘Mum, I’m only going across the road!’
Ellen had sagely said that his mum was bound to feel like that, since she was losing her baby.
‘Baby!’ Gerry had cried, laughing. ‘I’m twenty-five!’
‘You’re still her youngest, though, and the youngest of only two. Of course she doesn’t want you to go.’
‘That’s just stupid,’ Gerry had said.
But now he remembered what she had said and with an effort at patience, put his arm round his mother.
‘I’m only going across the road, Mum. I’ll see you every day, don’t worry. And you know what they say: you’re not losing a son, you’re gaining a daughter.’
‘Yeah.’ Alma looked unconvinced. ‘But –’
‘No buts. You go and get your glad rags on. Don’t want them Johnsons outshining us, do we?’
‘No, no, of course not.’ His mother went off upstairs.
Gerry stood looking after her. There was one very good reason for moving out that he had not brought up: Charlie. He did not want Charlie listening to every movement on his wedding night or any other night. He could just see his brother grinning at him in the morning and leering at Ellen, making suggestive remarks and drawing him on one side to ask how Ellen was.
What was making it much worse was the fact that he was not at all confident about the part he had to play tonight. It was not a thing he could get advice about. He could not possibly admit to his mates that he was still a virgin and ask them for a few tips.
He stood in the small kitchen, dressed in brand-new clothes from top to toe, on the day he had been planning for years, and broke out in a cold sweat. What if he wasn’t up to scratch?
A few houses away at the Johnsons, it was Tom who was expressing the doubts.
‘I dunno,’ he said to his wife. ‘I’d’ve been a whole lot happier if it was Harry Turner.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with young Gerry,’ Martha said, just a trifle too emphatically.
‘I know there ain’t nothing wrong with him. He’s just not the man Harry is, that’s all.’
‘There’s plenty of girls as’d like to be in our Ellen’s shoes today, I can tell you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know that an’ all. But be honest, Martha. You know our Ellen. Who do you think she ought to be marrying? Who’s best for her, eh?’
Martha came and sat heavily on the bed beside him. She did not answer directly.
‘Trouble with our Ellen is, she’s stubborn as a mule. Got it into her head that she weren’t going to make the first move after that to-do with Harry and Siobhan, and look where it’s got her. Harry thinks she don’t care, and he’s got other interests all over the place, so Gerry steps in. And after all, love, he worships the ground she stands on, that’s plain.’
‘Oh yeah, I agree. And that’s a good start. But there’s more to a good marriage than that, ain’t there? You got to stick at it, through thick and thin. You know all about that, eh, love?’ Tom put his arms round his wife and drew her close, smiling into her eyes. ‘You’ve had enough to put up with all these years, ain’t you? But you been good to me all that time. The best, you are.’
Martha leant her head into his neck and returned his squeeze.
‘I got the best an’ all,’ she replied. She looked up at him and planted a kiss on his lips. ‘I tell you something, if our Ellen’s half as happy as what we been, she’s a lucky girl.’
The other side of the thin wall, Daisy and Ellen were getting ready. Daisy was in a fine state of excitement.
‘This is going to be the best party we had for ages,’ she declared, positively skipping round the room. ‘There’s been too much doom and gloom lately. All bad news. I’m really going to enjoy myself today.’
Ellen smiled at her. ‘Good, I’m glad,’ she said.
At seventeen, Daisy had grown into a big, bonny girl with a generous figure, a high colour, abundant energy and an argumentative streak.
‘What about you? Looking forward to it? Nervous?’ Daisy asked.
‘Yes,’ Ellen said.
She was nervous. She had jumped into this because of Siobhan and now she could not back out without hurting poor Gerry. Not that she wanted to ba
ck out. She was very fond of Gerry. It was just that – she stopped short, refusing even to admit it to herself. But inside she knew that this was second best.
Daisy gave a chuckle. ‘So you’re not getting him the way Maisie did, or Mary O’Donaghue?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Ellen said emphatically.
‘You’ve not tried him out, then?’
‘Daisy! What do you know about it?’
‘More than what you do, by the sound of it.’ Her sister bounced on the bed, laughing.
Ellen shook a finger at her. ‘You just be careful, miss, or you’ll be ending up like Maisie and Mary.’
She did wonder about the wedding night. She had been dying to do it with Harry. With Gerry she was not at all sure. But that was part of being married, so she going to have to accept it.
‘I wish it was all over,’ she said suddenly.
It was the truth. Once it was done, there was no going back. She could throw herself into her new life.
‘Blimey, what a waste!’ Daisy said. ‘It’s your day, remember. Enjoy it while you got the chance.’
Ellen nodded.
Daisy glanced at her, then with sudden perception came over and gave her a hug. Ellen clutched her back with a desperate fierceness. She needed very much to have someone to hold on to.
‘You’ll be all right, honest you will,’ Daisy said.
‘I hope so,’ said Ellen.
For a long minute Harry’s name hung in the air between them, but neither felt strong enough to speak it.
All of the street that was not on the outs with the Billinghams – which was roughly all the non-Irish – turned out to see Gerry and Ellen married at St Luke’s. General opinion was that he looked real smart, just like a toff. Everyone else had got their best clothes out of pawn, and maybe bought a new tie or retrimmed a hat, but Gerry was actually dressed in all new things. They were most impressed.
Ellen, it was agreed, had always been a pretty girl. Today, in a red and navy dress and a hat fluttering with artificial red roses, she looked a proper picture. A lot of people remarked that she looked a bit pale, others that you couldn’t exactly call her blooming or blushing, but then, as yet others pointed out, if she wasn’t now, she would be tomorrow.
After the service, the two families and as many of their relatives as could be fitted in went back to the Johnsons’ for tea. Everybody caught up with family news and eyed up the opposite side. The bride was kissed and the groom shaken by the hand. Bottles of beer were opened and the atmosphere became increasingly jolly. As noses grew red and faces shone, both sides decided that the other family was mostly all right, not a bad lot at all, until the whole party spilled out of doors and went up to the Rum Puncheon.
They came in in a big noisy group, laughing and calling to each other, some already singing. Inside, quite a crowd from Trinidad Street had already gathered and were lining up the drinks. A cheer went up as Ellen and Gerry came through the doors, together with a ragged chorus of ‘Here Comes the Bride’. Gerry, elated, bowed and ceremoniously led his new wife to the seat that was hastily placed for her. Laughing, Ellen sat down and took the glass that was thrust into her hand.
They were all well away now. Maisie was leaning against Will, misty-eyed, living her wedding all over again, while Will had recovered from his bad temper and was cheerful and expansive with drink. Martha and Tom stood smiling and drawing strength from the sheer force of all the goodwill around them. The young people were sorting themselves out, some still making the first tentative steps towards getting into pairs, others, like Ida Turner, firmly in control. Her arm was so tightly linked with Jack Johnson’s that you could hardly have got a knife between them. Someone started singing and they all joined in, swaying in time to ‘Daisy Belle’ and joyfully belting out the top notes.
Alma was better now that she was in the centre of a big happy crowd. It did not take much to bring out the optimistic side of her personality, and with a mixture of beer and port flowing potently round her system, she was on top of the world. Everything was fine. It was the best thing that had happened for years. She came round behind the newly-weds and flung an arm round each of them.
‘Here’s my lovely boy, and my lovely girl,’ she gushed, shouting above the noise and kissing them both. And to Gerry, ‘What’s all this, you standing here like a lemon? Sit her on your knee, why don’t you? You’re married now, y’know! Her mum can’t stop you!’
Gerry laughed and pulled Ellen up, then sat on her chair and settled her on his knee, his arm around her waist. Cheers and whistles broke out all round. It was at that moment that there was a shifting in the densely packed crowd, and Ellen caught sight of Harry.
He was leaning on the bar, nursing a pint, a small still island of silence amongst the hilarity, his normally open and cheerful features contracted and dark. He looked utterly unapproachable.
Ellen stared, unable to tear her eyes away. She could feel Gerry’s arm round her, Gerry’s legs beneath hers, and she knew with a deadly certainty that she was in the wrong place. As if drawn by the intensity of her gaze, Harry looked up and met her eyes. Time and place lost meaning. There were just the two of them, one at each end of a short dark tunnel. Ellen wanted to get up, to run down the tunnel, to reach the light at the other end. But her legs would not move. She was fixed to the spot. She tried to say his name, she cried it out inside her, but nothing came out. Then someone blundered between them with his hands full of spilling pints and the spell was broken. When she looked again, Harry was gone.
The gathering that had been so warm and friendly and jolly now palled. She looked around at the red, sweating faces, at hair slipping out of its pins and ties askew and she no longer felt part of the crowd. The mouths, gaping, drinking, were wet and loose, the eyes avid. The noise was terrible, a discordant row battering her eardrums. She wanted very much to go away, to be somewhere cool and dark and utterly quiet, to be alone. To cry. But there was no escaping now. She had made her decision and there was no going back. She was tied.
The evening seemed to go on for ever. The entire repertoire of the street’s songs was gone through and started again. Alma was on the table, doing a spirited performance of ‘Knees up, Mother Brown’ to shrieks of laughter from the rest of the pub. If anyone had been sober enough, they could have counted the layers of her underwear.
Gerry pulled Ellen closer and said into her ear, ‘You want to go now?’
‘Yes,’ Ellen said, with feeling.
Half a second later she realized what this meant, and regretted it. Gerry gave her a squeeze and heaved her off his knee.
‘We’ll try and creep out,’ he said.
No chance of that. The street was out to enjoy itself, and seeing off the bride and groom was an important part of the sport.
‘Aye-aye, look who’s slipping out!’
‘Where’re you two off to then, as if we didn’t know?’
A passageway to the door was formed, with densely packed bodies on either side – a gauntlet of racy remarks, jokes, advice, back-slapping, handshaking and kissing to be run before they could leave the pub. Ellen found herself facing her mother. She flung her arms round her and for a brief moment they hugged each other fiercely.
‘Oh, Mum.’
Martha kissed her forehead. ‘You’ll be all right, lovey. Just do what comes natural.’
Her father was shaking Gerry’s hand, squeezing his shoulder. ‘Take care of her, son.’
‘I will, Mr Johnson, I will.’
Gerry put a protective arm round her shoulder and they braved the last few feet to the door, emerging into the chill of the evening. Still they were not free, for a straggle of merrymakers followed them right to the door of their new home.
‘Pick her up, pick her up!’
‘Carry her over the threshold!’
Laughing, Gerry complied, staggering slightly as he lifted her up the step.
Then the door was closed behind them and at last they were alone. Ellen shivered. The house felt c
old after the fug of the pub. Gerry took her in his arms and kissed her long and tenderly.
‘Just us now, eh, love?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Happy?’
‘Oh yeah – very.’
‘Good. ’Cos I am. Happiest bloke in the world.’
She was acutely aware of being right next door to the Turners. They were so thin, the walls between these houses, you could hear a cough or the scrape of a chair. When it was quiet, you could hear voices. It was quiet now, with all of the street still celebrating their wedding. All except Harry. He had left the pub. He could be right next door now, on the other side of the wall.
An hour or so later, Ellen lay on her marriage bed, staring up into the darkness of the ceiling. Gerry lay asleep, sprawled partly across her, still damp with sweat. She lay perfectly still, not wanting to disturb him and start all that up all over again. She felt bruised and battered and profoundly disappointed. It was not Gerry’s fault, she supposed. Judging by the gasps and cries, he had reached whatever it was that this was all in aid of. She had glimpsed it often, with Harry . . .
The gates of memory opened. She had meant to keep them closed. It was all past now, after all. But she could not help it. It all came flooding back, the pressure of his mouth on hers, the eager questing of lips and tongues, the burning need of two young bodies separated only by the frustrating layers of clothing. She had wanted him so sweetly, so desperately, wanted to be swallowed up, to be lost, to become part of him.
It had not been like that tonight. She had been left unmoved. As Gerry’s breathing deepened and slowed, she stared up into the blackness, tears gathering into the corners of her eyes and running silently down her face.
PART IV
Trinidad Street Page 30
