‘Ain’t never seen no women dockers,’ Tom pointed out.
‘True, but look at all the factory workers. They’d show blooming Morton’s and Maconochie’s a thing or two.’
Tom chuckled to himself. ‘I was thinking of a whole bunch of women on the march with young Daisy at the head. That’d be a sight, that would!’ He patted his daughter on the knee. ‘I’m glad I got you to talk to, girl.’
Mollified, Ellen squeezed his hand. ‘I am some use to you, then?’
‘You’re pure gold, girl.’
Later, going over the conversation in her mind, it struck Ellen just how much Siobhan had influenced their lives for the worse. She couldn’t put back the clock and stop the damage Siobhan had done to Harry and herself, but perhaps there was still time to prevent her brother from wasting his life. The trouble was, she could not see how to do it.
She talked it over with Florrie, who was now back next door and bringing a new order and stability to the Turner household. Florrie, who had still not forgiven Siobhan for eclipsing her at her wedding, mentioned it to Harry. Harry mulled it over as he took loaded barges up and down the river. The last thing he wanted was to make contact with Siobhan again, but there was Maisie to consider, together with the urge to do anything he could to help Ellen or her family. So when a friend of his mentioned that he was going to one of the halls that Siobhan was currently appearing in, Harry started working on a plan.
‘That the one what your cousin works at?’ he asked.
‘Not my cousin, my old lady’s.’
‘Same difference. Can you get backstage, see the artistes, like?’
‘Depends. He’s a funny old sod. Might cost you.’
Harry grinned. ‘I got a nice load of tinned pines going upriver.’
His friend smiled in response. ‘Think that might do the trick, mate. Saturday night all right?’
He could not be sure that it would work. Harry had met a few music-hall artistes backstage, and the reality had always been a let-down after seeing the glittering performer in the spotlight. The idea was that if Will got near enough to Siobhan to see what she was really like, he would be so disillusioned that he would think no more about her. There was a risk, of course. Will might still be besotted enough to be taken in. But it was worth a try.
It was the work of moments to get Will to agree to a night out. Harry did not even have to let on that Siobhan would be appearing. So far, so good.
That Saturday, all spruced up in their best, with their hair neatly parted and flattened, they arrived at a distinctly second-rate place south of the river.
‘Don’t think much of this,’ Will said, looking at the peeling paint on the columns outside.
‘Might not look much but we do get to go backstage,’ Harry pointed out.
‘If there’s anyone worth seeing.’
Will turned his attention to the playbill. Harry watched as his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
‘Blimey! Sio—’
‘Something up, mate?’
Will made a poor attempt at covering up. ‘No, no – just surprised, that’s all. You never told me Siobhan O’Donaghue was appearing. You remember Siobhan O’Donaghue? Pat and Declan’s cousin?’
‘Only too blooming well,’ Harry assured him. ‘Wouldn’t never have come if I’d known. Still, too late now – I paid for the tickets.’
‘Second from the top!’ Will could not be drawn away from the poster. ‘Look – she’s second from top. She always wanted top billing. She’s nearly there.’
All his suspicions confirmed, Harry took him by the arm. ‘We’re missing it. Come on.’
The first half of the bill was dreadful – old troupers on their way out and young hopefuls who were never going to make it. The comics were painful, with bad timing and worn-out jokes, the singers off-key or unable to fill the auditorium. Harry hoped his plan was going to work, for it was definitely a waste of a Saturday night so far. At half-time, they shoved their way to the bar, where the beer was expensive and on the thin side. Harry was beginning to feel disgruntled. There was so much that was beyond his control. It was not impossible that Siobhan might actually welcome Will, and that would be disastrous. It did not help to see that Will could hardly drink for nerves. Harry scowled into his beer and wondered if the whole idea had been stupid.
The bell rang for the next half.
‘We got to wait by the doors into the stalls, left-hand side,’ Harry said.
They stood at the appointed place, Will fidgeting with impatience, Harry oppressed by a growling conviction that this was not a good idea at all. Through the closed doors came the sound of yet another mediocre act, a comic duo. Catcalls from the audience punctuated their leaden repartee. Harry was on the point of suggesting that they went somewhere else while there was still time.
‘You Harry Turner?’
A small man in shirtsleeves had appeared. Harry introduced himself and Will.
‘You got a rum lot in there tonight,’ Harry said, indicating the audience with a jerk of the head.
‘Always a rum lot in this place,’ the little man responded. As he spoke, the cigarette that was stuck to his bottom lip jumped up and down. ‘C’mon. The acts get better from now on. They’re the ones you want to meet, if you want to meet any of ’em. You want to see the girls, I s’pose. Myself, I wouldn’t touch ’em with a barge pole. Lot of little tarts.’
As he shuffled off in front of them, Harry thought that no girl in her senses would want to touch him, either. He let Will get ahead, so that he was close to the small man’s shoulder. Sure enough, he heard him ask in a deliberately off-hand way whether Miss O’Donaghue had arrived yet.
‘Her? Yeah, she’s here. Come a few minutes ago. Can’t see her yet. How about a word with the Twistleton Twins? Can’t tell ’em apart. They’d be friendly to a pair of young men like you.’
‘Fair enough,’ Harry said.
‘Er, yeah.’ Will did not sound at all happy.
They stopped outside a dingy door. The small man stood with his body barring the way.
‘They’re in here,’ he said, with a world of significance in his voice.
Harry realized that the tins of pineapples were only to get them backstage. Actually meeting the artistes was going to be extra. It looked as if it was going to be an expensive night out. He produced half-a-crown. It disappeared into the small man’s pocket as quick as a conjuring act.
‘That’s for both of us,’ he said.
The man looked disappointed but did not argue. He knocked on the door.
‘Visitors for you, Misses T.’
There were squeals from inside. ‘No, wait – we’re not ready . . .’
‘Want to go in now?’ The man gave a gap-toothed grin.
But Will was hanging back. ‘Er – which is Miss O’Donaghue’s room, then? Ought to see her, y’know. Friend of ours. Used to live in our street. Wouldn’t be neighbourly to miss her, would it, Harry? Not right at all.’
‘Look, mate.’ The small man sidled up to Will. ‘I wouldn’t go in there if I was you, neighbour or no neighbour,’ he said confidentially. ‘You go ‘n’ try your luck with them twins.’
‘But which one is it?’
The man indicated the door at the end.
Harry took a chance. ‘Come on, Will. You don’t want to see Siobhan again. Let’s go in here.’
He opened the door and put his head round, and was immediately bombarded in all of his senses. The bright light made him blink, a waft of compounded scent, cigarette smoke and female sweat filled his nose and lungs, and squeals of mock fright and delight vibrated through his ears. The two Misses Twistleton, bright blonde and made up to the nines, bounded up to him and took an arm each, drawing him into the room.
‘Oo, you’re nice. What’s your name? I’m Holly –’
‘– And I’m Ivy. Holly and Ivy, get it? We was born at Christmas.’
‘Our mum said the Christmas angels brung us!’
Harry’s eyes
adjusted to the light, and he looked from one to the other. There really was no telling them apart. Two pairs of red lips smiled invitingly at him. Two pairs of blue eyes twinkled roguishly. Two delicious half-dressed bodies exuded animal energy and fun.
‘I think Christmas has come early for me this year,’ he said.
‘You sit down here.’ The girls pushed him on to a chair. ‘We got to finish getting ready. You can fasten us up.’
‘Then afterwards you can unfasten us again, if you’re lucky.’
They both shrieked with laughter. Their blonde curls and their high round breasts quivered. Then they spotted Will hesitating at the door.
‘Oo, you got a friend! One each – even better. Shame you’re not twins. We want to find a pair of twins, don’t we?’
‘Yeah, we’re not getting married till we can find a pair of twins.’
‘But they’re both very nice, ain’t they?’
‘Oh yeah, they’re both very nice. Come on, darling, come and sit down by your friend. Oo, hasn’t he got strong arms? Feel them muscles!’
They pranced about, laughing, joking, getting dressed for their act. Harry and Will were allowed to hook them up at the back and hand them their props.
Their five-minute call came, and they flew around in mock panic, getting in each other’s way, tripping over their own and the men’s feet, and landing accidentally on purpose on their laps.
‘Misses Twistleton, on stage now. On stage now, Misses Twistleton.’
And with a last squeal and flourish, they were gone.
Harry looked at Will. In the overwhelming presence of the twins, he had almost lost sight of the purpose of the evening.
‘Reckon we’re in with a chance here, eh?’ he said.
‘Yeah.’ Will was not really listening. His attention was elsewhere.
Harry chatted on about the two girls, assessing their charms, and all the while Will nodded and grunted.
In no time at all, they were back.
‘Ooo, they loved us. Didn’t they love us, Holly?’
‘They always love us, Ivy. Standing in their seats, they were.’
‘Ooo, I love singing.’ Ivy gave a shiver of sheer pleasure. ‘It makes me feel so – so wonderful. Like I love all the world.’
‘All the world! And they all love us!’
They hugged each other and broke into a chorus of their song. Harry laughed out loud, caught up in their sheer exuberance. He threw an arm round each one of them and they all danced together, whirling round in the cramped room in dizzying circles until one of the girls caught her foot on a chair and they all fell in a heap, laughing and shrieking. Harry, swamped in scent and taffeta and young hot bodies, could feel all restraint flying fast out of the window. He kissed one and then the other. They giggled with delight and kissed him back, both at the same time. They tasted salty.
Will sat watching without really seeing them. All his senses were concentrated on listening for Siobhan. He heard the five-minute call for her act, then the on-stage one. Her footsteps went by outside. He knew they were hers. He could bear it no longer. Stepping over Harry and the twins, he slipped out of the door. He just caught sight of Siobhan’s skirt as she whisked round the corner.
All the old longing and frustration swept back. He had to see her again, he just had to. He could not stay two rooms away when he could be with her. He knew just what he was going to do; he was going to go into her room and wait for her to come back, and see what she said when she saw him sitting there. Maybe she would be pleased. You never could tell with Siobhan. Standing there in the musty corridor, with the sound of her sweet voice stealing through the walls between him and the stage, he almost managed to convince himself that she would be delighted, that all would be just as it had been on those rare precious occasions when she had allowed him all that he ever wanted. Looking back on it, he always forgot the many times she had stood him up, tried to make him jealous of the Great Cornelius or Sidney Spruce, taken advantage of him, played hard to get or just refused to have anything to do with him. In his memory, she was always sweet and playful and willing.
As he placed his hand on the doorknob, the small man’s warning came back to him, but he discounted it. See Siobhan was the only thing that mattered.
The first thing that hit him as he went in was the cigar smoke. At first he thought he had got the wrong room. A man was sitting there, a young man in evening dress with a handsome, insolent face and a broken nose. He was sitting in the one chair, with his feet up on the littered dressing table. It was a woman’s dressing table, piled with pots of cream, make-up, scent bottles, flowers, lace handkerchiefs and a bright pink feather boa.
The young man looked Will over slowly, from head to toe, taking in every detail, so that Will was suddenly conscious of his lowly appearance. He became painfully aware that his hair was ill-cut, his collar darned, his hands rough and ingrained with dirt, that his jacket did not match his trousers and his boots were patched. He was every inch the working man on a Saturday night out. In contrast, his rival was impeccably clad in white tie and tailcoat, with a snowy starched shirt covering his broad chest, and patent leather shoes on his feet. He looked very much at home here in Siobhan’s dressing room as he blew a puff of expensive smoke into the air.
‘Looking for someone?’ he asked.
Will was thrown. It was not the accent of a gentleman – that he might almost have been able to handle. Despite appearances, this man was one of his own sort, but successful. Successful and dangerous. A warning instinct set his heart thudding. He was younger than Will, not more than twenty-five, but every inch of him was flint-hard, and behind that smooth smile sat a calculating mind.
‘N-no,’ he stuttered. ‘No – I – I made a mistake. Wrong room.’ He was rooted to the spot.
‘That so? Who was you looking for?’
‘Er – er.’ His brain went completely blank. He could not even think to name the Twistletons.
‘Nobody? You must’ve been looking for someone. Friends of Siobhan’s, are you?
‘Neighbour.’ The word came out before he could stop it. Something in the man’s eyes, something cold and snakelike, seemed to drag it from him, like a confession.
‘Neighbour? That’s funny. Didn’t think your type lived round her way.’
Will licked his lips. His mouth was dry. ‘W-was,’ he enlarged. ‘Was her neighbour. Once. On Dog Island.’
‘Dog Island,’ the man repeated. ‘North of the river, eh? Me, I’m from Southwark. This is my home ground, round here.’
It was just a remark, a simple piece of information, said almost pleasantly, and yet there was a distinct menace in it. Will swallowed. He could handle himself in a fight all right, but not with this one. He was the sort that would have a knife in your guts before you knew what had got you.
‘Oh, well – I’ll be going.’
‘Going? But you only just come.’
‘Yeah, but I got to –’
‘Oh no you ain’t. You wait till Siobhan comes back. I wouldn’t like her to miss an old friend.’
The power of movement had drained from Will’s legs. He stood just where he was, inside the door. He was still there when Siobhan arrived back.
‘Got a little surprise for you, petal,’ the young man remarked. He did not get up from the seat.
Siobhan stepped round Will and went to his rival. She leant against him and put her arm round his shoulder, so that her breast was pressed against his cheek. He reached up and fondled her.
‘Go well?’
‘Well enough.’
She was staring at Will as if he was a maggot that had crawled out of an apple she was eating.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she asked.
‘Says he knows you, petal. Neighbour of yours from the old days.’
‘Never clapped eyes on him in my life.’
Will stared at her, thunderstruck. The costume was the same type she always wore – a fluffy pastel dress with a big flowery hat – and from
a distance the rest of her would have seemed the same as well; but close to, it was like seeing a different person. The blue eyes, the pretty round face, the sweet lips, all were hard and calculating and worldly-wise as an alley cat’s. Will reeled from the shock, not wanting to believe what his eyes were telling him. In his mind she was the little Irish girl, sweet sixteen and fresh off the boat. This was a woman who had trod the halls for ten years, a bully-boy’s mistress.
As if to underline the point, her lover caught at her nipple as it showed through the thin fabric of her dress. He pinched it between his finger and thumb.
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘I knew you was going to say that.’
He looked at Will. ‘I think you better be off,’ he said.
Sick to the pit of his stomach, Will obeyed.
Ellen stirred and woke up. She listened for a moment, not knowing what it was that had disturbed her. The children were both fast asleep, their breathing light and regular. There was no sound from the lodgers. Perhaps it was just that she was uncomfortable. They had pawned the beds two days ago and the floor was hard.
Then she realized that Gerry had at last returned. He was creeping through the house as soft as a cat burglar. Just as quietly, Ellen got up and tiptoed round the children. She met Gerry at the foot of the stairs.
‘Oh.’ He was startled. ‘I – I was trying not to wake you, love.’
‘What, so as you needn’t say anything to me?’
‘No, no, not that. I was just thinking of you.’
Ellen sighed. ‘We got to talk, you and me. You can’t go on avoiding me no longer. I got a right to know what’s going on.’
Gerry opened his mouth to make an excuse, but Ellen took him by the arm and steered him into the kitchen. She sat down on one of the crates that was serving as a stool and tugged at him to do the same. Too bone tired to protest, Gerry slumped down, his shoulders bowed.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘what’s up?’
‘Nothing. Nothing much, anyhow. Just a bit of a bad patch. I’ll pull through, love. I always have, y’know. Few weeks and it’ll all be hunky-dory again.’
Trinidad Street Page 43
