Trinidad Street

by Patricia Burns

  Then a new worry hit him as he shuffled towards the box office. Supposing there were no seats left?

  ‘Yes?’ The attendant did not even look at him.

  ‘One for the gods, please.’

  He pushed his money across the counter. A ticket was pushed back. Relief flooded through him. It was all right.

  Up the endless flights of stone steps and into the gallery he bounded, as light as a twenty-year-old. A wall of warmth hit him. The excited chatter of hundreds of voices wrapped round him. He found a place on the end of a bench at the very back, so that he had a clear view down the narrow aisle. He was level with the lights up here, but the seats were so steeply raked that it felt as if he was right on top of the stage. One good jump and he would land on it. As the water trickled off the ends of his trousers and his jacket started to steam, the outside world gradually ceased to exist until there was nothing but here and now, and what was to come. He sat taking in the atmosphere as he dried out, anticipation winding pleasurably inside him.

  He had been to enough halls to know that this was a good one. There was a proper band, the master of ceremonies handled the audience with skill, and there was a good line-up of acts. He laughed at the comics and joined in the choruses with the singers. All the time the tension was building into a great ball, filling his guts, squeezing his lungs until he could hardly contain it.

  The master of ceremonies banged his gavel. His barrel chest inflated, his red nose shone. His voice boomed out to fill every last corner of the auditorium.

  ‘And now, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, for your delectation and delight – with a voice as sweet as the flowers in spring and feet as light as raindrops . . .’

  It had to be her.

  ‘Songs that would melt a heart of stone . . .’

  It must be her.

  ‘All the way from the Emerald Isle . . .’

  It was her.

  ‘Your sweetheart and mine – Miss Siobhan O’Donaghue!’

  ‘Ye-e-eah!’

  Will shouted and whistled and stamped his feet. He craned forward. The red curtains swept apart. A line of music from the band and there she was, picked out in the beam of the spotlight, as fresh and beautiful and unspoilt as the day he first saw her. In her flouncy green and yellow dress, with her hair tumbling in curls down her back, she did not look a day over sixteen – a fresh, innocent girl with the flowing curves of a woman. Will watched, entranced. The theatre melted away. There was nothing but him and her.

  The words and the music swirled around him, a sweet little ditty about the one true love she always remembered. She advanced and retreated, smiling, flirting, seeming to promise everything and snatching it away. She knew he was there, she must do. She was looking right at him. She was singing it for him, his Siobhan. The years rolled away. She was offering him the chance to run away with him again. This time there would be no hesitation.

  Her song ended. He applauded until his work-hardened hands hurt. The curtains closed, cutting her off from him. He sat in a daze, seeing and hearing nothing of what was going on around him. He did not even realize the next act was on stage. He had to see her again, face to face. She was waiting for him, he knew it. She had been waiting all this time. He would speak to her after the show. Somehow or other, he had to get to her dressing room. She would let him in, he was sure of it. He sat in a sweat of longing.

  Out of nowhere a dreadful thought struck him. She would not be here at the end of the show. All artistes did at least two turns a night, many managed three. She would be at the next theatre. He leapt out of his seat and blundered towards the exit. Down the steps he charged, his boots ringing on the flecked stone, his heart pounding. She could not have left yet. She must not.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he muttered out loud. ‘Wait for me.’

  He went out into the cold and wet again. The rain cooled his flushed face as he paused, looking wildly this way and that, trying to get his bearings. Which way was the stage door? He plunged to his right and came to the corner of the building. He peered through the murk for a light or a notice. Nothing. He tried again. There was a cobbled alleyway on the other side of the theatre. A female figure stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of him, blocking his way.

  ‘Hello darling, where’re you going so fast? Fancy a nice time?’

  A waft of cheap scent in his nostrils, nearly choking him.

  ‘Piss off!’ He pushed her out of his way, not even hearing her squall of protest. There was a cab ahead of him, practically filling the alleyway. Level with its roof he could see a dim lamp with lettering on it. He knew what it said: Stage Door.

  He squeezed between the cab and the wall. There was no one else waiting at all. The rain had seen them off. He poked his head inside the door, to be growled at by the stage doorkeeper.

  ‘Miss O’Donaghue?’ he asked. ‘She gone yet?’

  ‘Might have. Might not,’ was the helpful reply.

  Will had not the kind of money to prise a sensible answer from him. He backed out and looked up at the cabby hunched in his seat under a mackintosh cape.

  ‘You waiting for Miss O’Donaghue?’

  The man gave no sign that he had even heard.

  ‘Oi! Cloth ears! I said, are you waiting for Miss O’Donaghue?’

  ‘No, I’m waiting for the bleeding Queen o’ Sheba.’

  Will glowered at him. He stood by the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his ears alert for the first sounds of movement within. The minutes dragged by. Perhaps she had gone. Perhaps she had left the moment her turn was over. She could be halfway across London by now.

  Footsteps tapped on wooden stairs. Will sprang to attention and peered into the ill-lit passage. First feet, then skirts appeared. He felt sick with excitement. It was her, he was sure of it.

  She was pulling a hood over her head, obscuring her face, but there was no mistaking her.

  ‘’Night, Bert!’

  ‘’Night, Miss O’Donaghue.’

  ‘Siobhan!’

  He moved in front of her, but she sidestepped neatly round him without even looking at his face. She was intent on the cab outside.

  ‘Siobhan, wait.’

  ‘I’m late.’

  He caught at her arm but she was past him already and jumping up into the cab.

  ‘Drive on!’ she called before she had even shut the doors.

  ‘Siobhan – Siobhan . . .’

  He hurried down the alleyway after her, oblivious of the filthy water sprayed by the cab wheels. As it turned into the narrow backstreet he came alongside. He could just see the shape of her face, a pale circle in the darkness.

  ‘Where are you going, Siobhan?’

  The driver whipped the horse into a trot. Will had to run to keep up.

  ‘Siobhan, please! Where are you going?’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you like to know, Will Johnson!’

  From the depths of the cab came that familiar laugh, teasing, entrancing.

  His heart leapt. He was ready to sing and dance and turn cartwheels in the mud.

  ‘Siobhan, you got to come to the wedding.’ He did not know what made him say that. It just came out – anything to catch her attention. ‘Florrie and Jimmy. In three weeks’ time. Say you’ll be there, Siobhan.’

  The cab reached the main street. For once, there was a break in the traffic. It crossed into the outside stream. Will plunged after it, heedless of the oncoming wheels. There was a squeal of brakes and the blare of a horn. A large motor car stopped within an inch of him, its polished radiator gleaming in the reflected light from its headlamps. The chauffeur leant out and yelled abuse.

  Dazed, Will stepped back on to the safety of the pavement, his eyes still fixed on the back of Siobhan’s cab. He felt as if half of him had been wrenched away. He raised his hands and cupped them round his mouth.

  ‘Three weeks!’ he bawled above the roar and clatter and rumble of the traffic. ‘Three weeks’ time, Siobhan!’

  He stood in the rain, staring after h
er. A bus hid her from his view, but still he stood there. That laugh still rang in his ears, that irresistible, teasing voice. Wouldn’t you like to know, Will Johnson!

  He would like to know, very much. He wanted it with all his being. But all he was left with was the hope that she might just come to Florrie and Jimmy’s wedding.

  5

  THE TAP ON the door made Ellen jump. She wasn’t expecting visitors. She got up as Florrie’s head came round the front door.

  ‘Oh, Ellen, can I come in?’

  ‘’Course you can! What a thing to ask. Come on into the back. Gerry and the others are out.’

  Florrie sat hunched up in the chair, with her arms round her raised knees. Her narrow face was pale, her mouth set.

  ‘Nervous?’ Ellen asked.

  Florrie nodded.

  Ellen’s heart went out to her. She remembered the night before her own wedding. She too had been nervous, with misgivings about the whole thing, but she had had the support of her mother and the other women of the family. They had all sat chatting and joking while they made last-minute alterations to dresses. Lots of good advice had been given out with the cups of tea and nips of gin. Ellen had felt the arms of the family about her, warm and reassuring. But for Florrie it was not the same. Her mother was still locked in her prison of grief.

  ‘I’m surprised your Aunty Alma ain’t come round,’ she said.

  ‘She’s coming later, she said, and Maisie an’ all, if Will don’t go out. But – well, you know Aunty Alma when she gets going.’

  Ellen knew what she meant. Her mother-in-law had a heart of gold, but could be a bit much, especially on an occasion like this.

  ‘She does get loud, don’t she?’

  Florrie nodded again.

  Ellen wondered how they were going to get on, her and Jimmy, in Alma’s house, for, like Maisie before her, Florrie and her new husband were going to lodge with her aunt until such time as they could afford a place of their own. It was a sensible arrangement, since Alma was finding it difficult managing on just her wages and Charlie’s intermittent contributions, but Alma was so boisterous and Florrie so quiet and withdrawn that Ellen though she could be swamped.

  ‘You frightened about leaving home?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not really. I mean, it’s only over the road.’

  ‘Be quite nice to get out of your house. It ain’t been the same since – you know.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Florrie did not sound very sure. Ellen had thought she would be only too glad to leave. It never had been a happy place, but since Archie’s death it was like a tomb. It was as if Milly’s depression was reaching out like a smothering fog, touching each one of them.

  ‘At least Alma’s always happy.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Florrie sighed. ‘It’s just – I don’t like leaving Mum, that’s all. Not in the state she’s in at the moment.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ellen sought to find a way to put it kindly. ‘I would have thought that – things being how they are . . . I mean, it might be better . . .’

  She left the sentence unfinished, but they both knew what she meant. Florrie was a constant reminder of the manner of Archie’s death.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Florrie half agreed. ‘But Mum does rely on me. Ida’s all right, she means well, but she’s a bit, you know . . .’

  ‘Stupid,’ Ellen supplied.

  ‘Well, yeah, she is. And I know Maisie comes round, but she’s got all them kids and having them miscarriages brung her down, and Aunty Alma does her best, but Mum just goes even quieter when she’s there. And I know you do all you can, but you’re not her daughter, after all. It’s me what’s really in charge now.’

  ‘Might do Ida a lot of good. She’ll have to think a bit,’ Ellen said. ‘And you can come over every day and check up on them, can’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Florrie did not sound convinced.

  ‘Only other thing would’ve been for Jimmy to move in with your family, but that wouldn’t be no good,’ Ellen pointed out. ‘Not enough room, for a start, and it ain’t – well, it ain’t exactly cheerful for starting your married life, is it?’

  ‘No, no you’re right,’ Florrie agreed.

  Ellen was worried. Her friend did not seem like a bride looking forward to being with her man. She reached over and took Florrie’s hands.

  ‘What is it, eh? What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’ But she did not look Ellen in the eye.

  ‘Come on, there is something. Don’t you want to go through with it?’

  Florrie pulled her hands away and clawed them into her hair. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know! I do, but . . .’

  ‘You do love him?’ Ellen asked gently.

  ‘Yes! Yes, I do. It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It ain’t nothing. Something’s bothering you. Is it – about what happened?’

  There was a long pause, then Florrie nodded.

  Ellen tried to grope her way towards the truth. ‘You didn’t kill him, you know that, don’t you? You hit him, but that’s not what killed him.’ Then it came to her. ‘Ain’t you told Jimmy?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered, after another long pause.

  ‘Bit of a secret to keep from him,’ Ellen said. Harry had always insisted that nobody else should know, not even Maisie. But this was different.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘D’you want to tell him?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘I tried to but I couldn’t. I was afraid – you know – afraid what he’d think of me.’

  ‘If he loves you, he’ll see it was just a dreadful accident.’

  It seemed to Ellen that this had to be cleared up. But Jimmy would be down the Puncheon with the men from the street, and calling him out would cause such a to-do that she dismissed the idea at once. Florrie wouldn’t see him again till they met at the church, and then there was the party. They wouldn’t get a chance to talk alone until they got to their room at Alma’s. It wasn’t really the sort of thing to be talking about on your wedding night, but then if Florrie waited till the morning it would be even worse. Wedding nights were bad enough, in her experience, without the prospect of a confession to go through afterwards.

  ‘If you’re going to tell him, you want to get it over with as soon as you can,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Soon as you and him are alone. Once it’s out, you’ll feel better.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, I know you are. I got to tell him.’ Florrie stood up. ‘I better get back next door. They’ll all be there soon. And thanks, Ellen. Thanks a million.’

  Ellen came with her to the door. She put her arms round her friend and hugged her.

  ‘All the best, Florrie. You be very, very happy, you hear me?’

  The women clung to each other, both on the verge of tears, then Florrie broke away and hurried home. Ellen was left brushing a sleeve across her eye.

  ‘You be very, very happy,’ she repeated in a whisper. ‘You’re marrying the man you love. Don’t let anything spoil it.’

  She hoped with all her heart that tomorrow would be a wonderful day for Florrie. God knew, she deserved it.

  All the non-Catholic members of the street were at the church the next day, along with the Crofts, most of the Turners and Milly and Alma’s side of the family. It was dark inside, after the fine May weather in the streets, and a strong smell of mothballs and camphor from Sunday best and redeemed clothes mixed with the dust, polish and incense of the church. They sat fidgeting in the pews, craning their necks and commenting on each other and their surroundings. The chapelgoers were disdainful of what they considered to be painted idols in the church, while the heathen majority, who only set foot inside the place for weddings and funerals, looked about with awe or exaggerated ease. Babies cried or slept, toddlers ran up and down the aisles. There was a hum of happy anticipation. The women looked smug, as if they as a sex had got one over on the men. They nodded and smiled at each other, the married ones
knowing what the bride was up against, the spinsters hoping it would be their turn next. Their menfolk had an air of pained tolerance. Most of them had been drinking with the groom the night before, and were looking forward to further celebrations once the ceremony was out of the way.

  It was drawing near to the time. Jimmy Croft and his brother Joe, uncomfortable in ill-fitting jackets and tight collars, were looking increasingly anxious. The vicar had a cold and was sneezing and blowing his nose as he waited.

  The outer door opened. Everyone looked round, ready to smile benignly at Florrie leaning on her brother Harry’s arm. But the woman who stood framed in the sunlight did not have Florrie’s slight figure and made-over dress. In her primrose yellow gown and huge matching hat, she appeared to glow like the sun itself in the doorway. A man appeared beside her – not Harry, but a thin and incredibly tall figure whose height was increased by his shiny top hat. Together they stood, drawing every eye. The entire congregation drew in its breath, then let it out in a buzz of surprise and speculation. Who were they? Why were they here? Nobody in either family dressed like that. It was unknown for toffs to come to weddings on Dog Island.

  The man removed his hat. They stepped forward, making a progress into the body of the church. It was then that those with sharp eyes recognized the lady.

  ‘Siobhan! It’s Siobhan O’Donaghue – look, just look at her! Siobhan!’

  ‘Who’s that with her?’

  The buzz grew into a roar as everyone asked everyone else. Heads switched this way and that. Who had she nabbed? Was he one of the nobs? He looked it. They sat down behind the rest of the congregation, so that everyone had to stay screwed round in order to stare at them. Siobhan deliberately avoided looking anyone straight in the face, and a sweet smile of satisfaction curved her lips. The man stared at the windows above the chancel as if there was nobody else there. His thin face with its hooked nose and mysterious dark eyes looked as if it had been carved from alabaster.