‘There it is!’ cried someone with sharp eyes.
Ahead of them, crouching on the water, a long black line ending in the low dark blob: Southend Pier, the longest in the world. A crowd gathered at the forward rail to watch it get closer. Gradually the blob grew into a definite shape. Decks and buildings could be made out. Colours grew distinct, and now they could see the roofs and windows of the theatre and the tea rooms and the shelters. Flags fluttered from mastheads, there were lines of people sitting in deckchairs along the rails, and over the water came the sound of music. A band! A band was playing! The pier came closer still, and figures could be made out fishing and strolling and playing at deck quoits. And they were an attraction themselves. People were standing watching the Belle come in. The Trinidad Street contingent gathered themselves together, collecting up children and bags, straightening hats and scarves. As the boat came alongside they congregated behind a restraining chain, waiting to be let ashore. The warps were thrown and made fast, the paddles stopped, the gangways set up. A deckhand unfastened the chain and they all surged forward. They were here. They had reached Southend.
2
THEY FUNNELLED DOWN the gangway and on to the pierhead, passed the queue of people waiting to get on and the fringe of spectators, and then gathered in small groups to decide just what they were going to do next. Some wanted to stay on the pier and listen to the band, others wanted to head straight for the beach, and a third group were keen to get to the donkey rides and amusements. Numerous children complained of being hungry, and gradually a consensus emerged.
‘Time to eat! Dinner,’ the mums declared. It was well gone twelve, getting on for one.
A couple of families went up to the sundeck and started getting out the sandwiches. Most headed for the trams. They would eat when they got to the shore.
And what a wonderful scene it was when they got there. The smells! The usual town reek of steam, oil and horses was overlaid by a wonderful mix of beer, frying chips, candy floss, cockles and shrimps, and the unique seaweedy whiff of Southend mud. For of course the tide was out. It wouldn’t have been Southend if the water had been in. And there laid out before them were all the pleasures they had ever dreamed of: rows of slot machines, innumerable pubs and teashops and foodstalls, boat trips, donkeys, Punch and Judy, pierrots – and beyond the noise and colour, peaceful gardens and a pretty bandstand . . . something for everyone.
In the cheerful mêlée, nobody from Trinidad Street noticed a tawdry figure standing outside one of the pubs, with a hand poised on her hip and a grubby pink feather boa wafting across shamelessly exposed breasts. But she noticed them, and the professionally inviting smile on her face faded into horror. She left her pitch and began to stalk them, always keeping the crowds between herself and them, a silent observer of their carefree fun.
The combined Johnson, Turner and Billingham families, their young people gathered once more under the wing, marched off the pier and spilled immediately on to the grubby shingle of the beach, the children yelling with delight. It was a difficult operation finding enough room amongst the packed bodies, but they managed it at last, with a few black looks from people already established.
‘Florrie, where’s Florrie?’ the cry went up.
She was discovered picking her way towards them, pink to the ears with suppressed joy.
‘Meeting him later, are you?’ Harry asked.
Florrie nodded, speechless, and dived into the anonymity of the family group.
Where was Siobhan? That was more to the point, Will thought. He had been well and truly tied down during the boat trip, with the added frustration of seeing her approach Harry and get the brush-off. He could not fathom Harry. If he were as free as Harry was, he would not be treating her like that. But he was stuck with the whole family, and it was getting him down. It was bad enough having Maisie and his own five children around. To have all Maisie’s lot, and his family, and the Billinghams as well, was just too much. He sat munching squashed jam sandwiches, glaring resentfully at all the people enjoying themselves, especially men his own age who were unencumbered by kids and sported striped jackets and boaters and moustaches, free to eye up the girls and have a good time. He looked down at his own clothes. He had quite fancied himself this morning, before setting off. But now he realized that the trousers were bagging at the knees, that the jacket was too long in the arms and far too dark for a jolly day out at the seaside, that his boots were workman’s boots, however well mended and polished. He had no chance at all, compared with those others. By his feet, Lily dropped her sandwich and wailed, Peter laughed at her and Tommy hit him, so Peter hit him back and pushed into Albert, who also dropped his sandwich and attacked both of them, screaming. Will cuffed all three boys round the ears and bellowed at them to shut up or else. They obeyed, but looked at him sulkily, lower lips stuck out.
A couple of yards away, Charlie Billingham was lounging back on one elbow as he ate. Will suddenly saw a way out. Charlie was not going to stick around with the women and children all afternoon. Neither was Harry or young Jack, for that matter, but he did not want them along. When the party started breaking up after the food was gone, he would tag along with Charlie.
‘Oi, mate,’ he said, calling behind the backs of the womenfolk. ‘You going off along the front later?’
‘Yeah, might. Why?’
‘Thought I’d come along of you.’
Charlie did not look overpleased. ‘Suit y’self,’ he said.
It was good enough for Will.
The last thing Charlie wanted was someone tagging along with him, but it was convenient for him to have Will at his side while he got away. When the sandwiches were eaten and the teatrays taken back to the café, he chose a moment when everyone else was busy sorting themselves out to beckon Will with a jerk of the head.
‘You coming, then?’
Will scrambled to his feet and they made their way up the beach, threading their way between the deckchairs and children and up on to the promenade. Here Charlie paused a moment, taking it in.
Will dug him with his elbow and nodded in the direction of a group of pretty girls.
‘Get an eyeful of that. Nice, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
But Charlie was not looking at them. It was the sight of all these people with spare cash in their pockets that held his imagination. Every single person had spending money about them, and none of them was looking after it. The thought of it filled him with an excitement that chasing girls had never given him. His acquisitive greed was too deep to be denied.
‘Come on,’ he said, plunging into the crowd.
His eyes flicked this way and that. Ahead of him was a bulging pocket with the corner of a leather wallet peeping over the top. Easy, so easy. But he was all too aware of Will at his shoulder and breathing down his neck. He spotted a row of machines lined up by a candy-floss stall.
‘What the Butler Saw,’ he said. ‘Fancy a look?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ Will grinned.
They both put pennies in and peered into the eyeshields as they turned the handles. Charlie waited till he heard a chuckle coming from Will, and then a whistle. Silently he slid away.
It was a wonder he did not feel the waves of hatred emanating from the woman watching him from round the corner of the stall. So venomous was the expression on her face that it made a small icy hole in the jolly heat of the day, casting a chill on anyone who caught sight of it.
Back on the beach, all Will and Maisie’s children, and Bob Turner, were paddling in puddles in the mud. The young people had gone off in a group, together with Jimmy Croft, who had Florrie’s arm through his. Archie had disappeared in the direction of the nearest pub and Milly was peacefully dozing in her deckchair, mouth open and hat askew.
Ellen sat with Jessica lying across her lap. She had just fed and changed her, and the baby was gurgling happily, playing with her fingers and toes.
‘Ah, the lamb,’ Martha cooed. ‘You give her to me, lovey. She’ll be
quite happy. You two go off and enjoy yourselves. Go on. No need to sit around with us old ’uns all afternoon.’
‘That’s real kind of you, Mum,’ Gerry said, before Ellen could object. He held out his hands and pulled her up. ‘Come on, we’ll see the sights. How about the pierrots? You ever seen them?’
Ellen found herself escorted off the beach.
Alma was left amongst the older women. Milly was still asleep. Maisie was distracted by keeping tags on where all her children had gone, and Martha was playing with Jessica. A restless dissatisfaction crept over her. Never mind Gerry and Ellen, she didn’t want to stay here with the old ’uns either. Why, Maisie was older in spirit than she was. She wanted to be out there where it was all going on, having a rare old time, not sitting in a deckchair. She wanted a man to stroll arm in arm with and to have a drink at one of the pubs. It was all right when you were young, you always had a pal or two to go off with and eye up the boys. At her age, it was different. You couldn’t just go out and pick up strangers.
‘Them boys, they never listen to a word I say. I wish their dad was here. He’d give ’em what for. But he’s gone and sloped off and left me,’ Maisie complained.
‘Oh, leave ’em be, they’re doing no harm. They’re having a lovely time,’ Alma told her. ‘Nothing like a nice game of mud pies.’
‘But they got their best clothes on! They’ll ruin ’em.’
‘It’ll wash. Comes off easy, Southend mud. Not like the stuff at home.’
Then inspiration hit her. The two grannies were happy to sit there, and Maisie needed a break every bit as much as Ellen.
‘Here, Martha,’ she said. ‘You can keep an eye on Maisie’s bunch, can’t you? Here’s your Will gone off and left her all on her tod. I reckon her and me ought to walk about a bit, see some of the sights.’
‘Oh – I dunno – I didn’t ought to . . .’ Maisie looked almost frightened of having her maternal duties so suddenly lifted from her shoulders.
Martha took it all in her stride. ‘That’s right, dearie. You and Alma go and have a look round. Shame to come all this way and not see anything.’
‘But Will –’
‘If he comes back, I’ll hold on to him till you arrive,’ his mother promised.
It took a little more persuasion, but in the end Maisie gave in. She wasn’t the companion Alma would have chosen, but she was a whole lot better than nothing.
‘Oo, it does seem funny not having no kids. Do you think they’re all right?’ she kept saying.
Alma reassured her, pointed things out to her and bought her a candy floss. Gradually Maisie relaxed and Alma could enjoy herself. She gave herself up to the noise, the colours, the crowds. The boisterous good nature of it all exactly chimed with her personality. She was happy just to be part of it.
‘Oh, a steam organ,’ she cried, catching Maisie by the elbow. ‘I love them. Come and have a look.’
It was a magnificent machine, carved and painted and glittering with a mosaic of mirrors, its pipes glowing red and gold. On a little platform at the front a group of carved figures as large as children tootled trumpets and banged drums in time with the music. Alma watched, entranced, as a rousing version of ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Van’ rolled around them.
She was not sure what distracted her and made her look amongst the crowd gathered round the organ, but when she did, she at once caught sight of her son. He was a little along from her, at the far edge. She was about to shout his name, to push her way through to him, when a shifting of people brought not just his head but his whole body into view. It was then that she saw it happen. His hand came out of his pocket, slid into the pocket of the man in front of him and then back into his own, all in one smooth movement.
Alma stood transfixed, his name dying in her throat. She could not believe what she had seen. Not her Charlie. He hadn’t really done that. He was still standing there, staring up at the organ like all the others, a picture of innocence. No, she hadn’t seen it. What was more, she was going to make sure she hadn’t. She was going to confront him, right now, and put her mind at rest. She nudged Maisie with her elbow.
‘There’s Charlie! Look, I’m just going to say hullo.’
‘Where?’ Maisie asked, shouting above the racket of the organ. But by that time he was gone.
‘I dunno.’ Alma was confused. ‘He was there a minute ago, I know he was.’ Her head was spinning and she felt slightly sick.
‘You all right, Aunty Alma? You look a bit queer.’
That was it. She wasn’t feeling herself. She was seeing things.
‘P’raps you got a touch of the sun. Why don’t we have a nice cup of tea?’
Alma felt she needed a brandy more than tea, but for once in her life she let Maisie take charge.
‘Yeah. P’raps you’re right. Yeah, a nice cup of tea,’ she said, and staggered to the nearest tea stall.
And a little way behind her in the swirling crowd, the woman in the pink boa saw it all, and smiled malevolently at her confusion.
Gerry and Ellen had also strolled under the pier and along the promenade by the amusements. Ellen would have preferred to go the other way, by the cliff gardens, but Gerry was so eager, so full of it all, that she had not the heart to object. The souvenir stands drew him like a magnet.
‘Here, look at this,’ he kept saying. ‘Ain’t that pretty? What a corker! They must make a mint here.’
Ellen found herself admiring plaster donkeys, ashtrays, combs, ringholders, eggtimers, plates with pictures of the pier on them . . . all with a present from Southend written somewhere. Gerry was like a child in a sweet shop.
‘Must find out where they get these from. I could sell these. What d’you think? Go down a bomb.’
Ellen was sceptical. ‘What would you have on them, then? A present from Poplar? Don’t quite sound the same, somehow.’
‘No,’ Gerry had to admit, ‘maybe not. But them eggtimers are nice. People’d go for them.’
Gerry found the owner of a shop and got into a long conversation about suppliers and customers and the problems of the retail trade. Ellen wandered round fingering the stock. Then she saw something that made her heart stand still. There in a display cabinet were black velvet trays of rings and brooches, and in amongst them was a little butterfly of silvery metal with coloured sparkling stones set in the wings. Ellen stood and stared at it. It was exactly like the one Harry had given her, his peacemaking gift. She never wore hers now, but she had it still, hidden away at the bottom of a drawer. Suddenly she could not stand all this poking around any more.
‘I’m going outside for a breath of air,’ she said to Gerry, and plunged out of the door without waiting for his reply.
All the world was enjoying itself, eating, drinking, going on rides, parading up and down. It was all too noisy, too crowded. Children were screaming, men shouting, trams and buses blowing their horns. A hurdy-gurdy man was playing nearby, whilst on the other side of the promenade the steam organ was blasting out its tunes. The two lots of music produced a discord that was hard to bear. Without stopping to think, Ellen started to walk back towards the pier. She had to get away from all this. She needed some peace and quiet.
She had just reached the place where the pier passed over the promenade when she noticed her bootlace had come undone. She moved to one side to do it up, and as she straightened up again, someone seemed to step back into the deep shadows, guiltily, as if avoiding her. She peered, her heart beating with sudden suspicion, then realized it was a woman and relaxed. She was a prostitute, by the look of her, and keeping stony still in the protecting shade of the broad structure above them. Then as Ellen’s eyes adjusted, recognition dawned and her mouth dropped open. The woman, seeing she was cornered, tried to make a run for it, but Ellen was too quick for her.
‘Theresa! Oh, Theresa, it is you, ain’t it? You gave me such a shock!’
And before she could escape, Ellen put both arms round her and kissed her cheek.
‘Blime
y, you’re the last person I thought I’d meet here. What . . .’ Then the words dried up, for it was all too obvious what Theresa was doing here in Southend. She was earning her living.
‘I just came down for the day,’ Theresa lied breathlessly.
‘So have we,’ Ellen said, swallowing the untruth in an effort to hang on to her. There were so many things she wanted to ask, yet she did not know how to start. She fell back on the trite and tested. ‘How – how are you, Theresa? You – er – you look well.’
‘I’m all right. And you? I can see you’re all hunky-dory. Married, are you?’
‘Yeah – I got a little girl now. Jessica. She’s lovely.’
Theresa’s painted face took on an expression of deep and bitter jealousy. ‘Well, it’s all right for some, ain’t it? Good girls like you can keep their babies. They got men to look after them. Me, I had a little girl and all, but I had to leave her at the workhouse.’
‘Oh, Theresa –’ Ellen’s arms dropped to her sides at the sheer horror of it. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ But even as she said it, she could not imagine how anyone, even in Theresa’s circumstances, could bring herself to do such a thing.
Theresa backed away.
‘Keep your pity – I don’t want it,’ she spat. But then her hand shot out and she gripped Ellen’s arm so tight that she gasped with pain. ‘But promise me one thing, Ellen Johnson . . .’
Trinidad Street Page 33
