Harry, speaking for Tom Johnson, gave last-minute instructions. Will Johnson appeared with the contingent from his street. The children were wild with excitement, shrieking and jumping around, while the young girls giggled together and called out to the lads they fancied. And above the racket, from away along the West Ferry Road, the faint sound of a brass band could be heard.
‘Listen!’ somebody shouted.
After a great deal of hushing, some of the voices piped down. The band could definitely be heard, playing ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’. A cheer broke out. Nearer and nearer the music came, till Tom judged it was about time they started off. A forward wave of his arm, together with a shout from Harry, and the procession set forth, an army in grey and brown and black, with patched boots and flat caps, off to stand up and be counted for what they believed in.
The children skipped and marched and ran alongside. Some of the women followed at a modest distance, the mothers with babies on their hips and toddlers hanging on their skirts. They stopped at the West Ferry Road and watched as their menfolk joined the main procession, waving and cheering as they all filed by.
It was a stirring sight. Poorly dressed and badly shod and undernourished they might be, but all together they made up something to be reckoned with. Against the drab buildings and dull clothing, the banners of the union branches made bold splashes of colour, scarlet and royal blue and green, with lettering and fringes of gold. Up the thoroughfare they tramped, accompanied by a posse of special policemen, past shops half empty or closed because of the strike action, and halted what traffic was left on the road. A second band brought up the rear, and a froth of children and stray dogs frolicked behind. And then they were gone, off to make their statement to the world.
The spectators hung about for a while, watching as the band retreated up the road, and discussing the latest news with friends from other streets. But after a while it seemed that nothing much else was going to happen, so they began to trail back home. There was a sense of anticlimax in the stale air. The houses were too stuffy to sit indoors. The heat reflecting back off the brickwork and cobbles was stifling. The men might have looked fine, but now they had gone the women were left with squabbling children and a sense of powerlessness. And to top it all, hardly anyone had any tea leaves that had not been used twice before. A restless feeling of dissatisfaction seethed just beneath the surface.
‘I wish I was out there marching with them,’ Daisy said to her sister. ‘When we all walked out yesterday, I really thought I was doing something.’
Ellen sighed. She knew just what Daisy meant. The last time she had made a bold gesture like that was when she ran away with Harry for the afternoon.
‘I know. We spend most of our lives just – just plodding, don’t we? Getting from day to day. But if you do go and do something different, you feel – well, you feel like you’re really living, don’t you? Like you’re making your mark in the world. Trouble is, you feel all sort of let down afterwards.’
‘You said it right there,’ Daisy agreed.
They could see that other women up and down the road felt the same. Nobody could settle to anything. The least misdemeanour on the part of a child brought a sharp clip round the ear. Many of the older girls were sent off with babies and toddlers to take them for walks, while the older boys, the members of the street gang, decided to go down to the river for a swim.
And then Siobhan appeared.
She was wearing a white muslin dress and a large shady hat trimmed with white silk flowers. She put up a pretty frilly nonsense of a parasol and tripped daintily across the street to speak to her aunt Clodagh. She looked totally out of place in the mean little street, a butterfly on a dunghill.
Staring at her, each and every woman became conscious of her own dowdy appearance. She was fresh and cool and pale in the impractical white. They were hot and sweating with sleeves rolled up and hair straggling down. Their feet had swollen inside ill-fitting boots. They had on old cotton skirts or dresses which had been washed so many times that the original colours could only be guessed at. Most of them wore aprons over the top, also washed almost out of existence, so that the general effect was of various shades of grey – blueish grey, greenish grey, brownish grey. One flower from Siobhan’s hat could have bought any one of the whole outfits that the others were wearing, and still left some change.
Resentment churned in every heart.
‘Look at that. Dolled up to the nines. Makes me sick,’ Alma remarked to Ellen and Daisy.
‘All that finery and she ain’t done an honest day’s work since she left Morton’s,’ Daisy agreed.
They were joined by Florrie and Ida.
‘You looking at what we’re looking at?’
‘Yeah, Lady Muck there. What makes her think she can set herself up like she’s better than what we are?’
‘Flaunting her white dress and her posh hat like that when folks are on their uppers. Ain’t right.’
‘It ain’t neighbourly, that’s for sure.’
Up and down the road, the same feelings were being expressed in a chorus of envious mutterings.
‘She ain’t never given nothing back, that one. Other folk, when they’re in the money, they help those what’re down.’
‘Yeah well, that’s what we all do, don’t we? We all help where we can.’
‘Not her. She don’t. Just goes flashing it around.’
‘Yeah, I didn’t see none of her relations asked in for a share of that fry-up what she had for dinner, let alone anyone else in the street.’
‘Now what’s she up to? I hope she ain’t coming up to speak to me.’
‘I hope she is. Give her the rough side of my tongue, I will.’
Siobhan appeared to have finished her conversation with Clodagh, but instead of going back to her house or off out, she was coming back down the street, sublimely indifferent to the looks she was being given. She stopped by the little group in which Ellen was standing.
‘’Afternoon, Ellen. All friends again now, are we?’
Ellen glared at her. She did not want to be reminded of this morning’s argument. It was only a few hours behind her and she was still feeling very raw.
‘Yeah,’ she said.
‘Lucky for you that Harry spoke up for you. Might have been a bit nasty otherwise.’
‘I don’t see why.’
Siobhan gave a little smile. ‘What with your husband not here and all. It must be nice to have another man there ready to take your side.’
Ellen flushed. She held her temper in check with difficulty. ‘What d’you mean by that?’
The smile became a shade more provocative. ‘Of course, you always did try to keep Harry to yourself, didn’t you? Doesn’t seem to have changed now that you’re married to Gerry.’
Guilt hit Ellen, winding her like a kick in the stomach, and along with it an awful irrational fear. She gaped wordlessly while questions chased round her head. What did Siobhan know? Had she seen her, that day they went to Battersea? Was that why she came back to Trinidad Street?
Daisy and Florrie had nothing to silence them. As one, they stepped forward.
‘Just what are you trying to say?’
‘You keep your filthy trap shut.’
The nearer neighbours began to sidle up. Those further away asked each other what was going on.
‘Come on, what d’you mean, eh?’ Daisy was insisting on an answer. ‘What are you trying to say about my sister and Harry Turner? You trying to pin something on them, ’cos if you are you better come out with it proper.’
‘I know what I heard this morning.’ Siobhan was not cowed.
‘Yeah? And?’
‘I’m only saying what other people think.’ She shrugged insolently. ‘Everyone knows Ellen Johnson only married Gerry Billingham because she couldn’t get Harry.’
‘You’re just jealous because you didn’t get him,’ Florrie said. ‘But I’ll tell you this for nothing, my brother wouldn’t touch you if you came t
o him on a plate.’
‘Thank you, but that’s hardly likely to happen, is it? I’m not going to stoop to lightermen when I have titled gentlemen lining up for me night after night.’
‘Funny none of them ain’t never married you.’
‘Funny she comes back here to live, and by herself an’ all, when she’s got all these men,’ Daisy put in.
‘What’s happening? What’s she saying?’ someone at the back wanted to know.
‘She’s saying there’s something going on with my sister and Harry Turner,’ Daisy said loudly.
Women who only that morning had been baiting Ellen were immediately on her side.
‘Blooming cheek! She’s one to talk.’
‘Yeah, we all know what went on with her and Harry Turner.’
‘Who does she think she is, spreading lies like that?’
‘Yeah, who does she think she is?’
That was what really needled all of them.
‘Parading about in her expensive dress and her posh hat.’
‘Coming back at all hours of the night in cabs.’
‘Eating eggs and bacon when our kids are going hungry.’
‘Thinks she’s better than us, that’s what.’
Daisy snatched at the hated hat. Siobhan screamed and clutched at it, but Daisy was too strong for her. She wrenched it from Siobhan’s grasp and set it on her own head, an incongruous piece of frippery above her broad face and sturdy body. She held it firmly with one hand and placed the other on her hip. Then she minced a few steps up and down the street.
‘I’m a famous music-hall artiste, I am. I’m a cut above all you lot in Trinidad Street,’ she trilled, in a recognizable imitation of Siobhan’s new accent.
The women shrieked with laughter. Someone wrested the parasol from Siobhan’s hands while the others held on to her to stop her from snatching it back. In the fray some of the trimming got pulled off.
‘Stop it, you’re breaking it!’ Siobhan cried.
‘Stop it, you’re breaking it!’ they chorused.
The tension of the last few weeks, long held back, was bursting out. Siobhan tried to pull away from the hands that gripped her, and the fragile sleeve of her dress ripped at the seams. That did it.
‘Look, look, a pretty hanky,’ yelled its new owner, and loudly blew her nose on it.
The women screamed with delight. Hands reached out to grab at Siobhan’s clothing. This way and that she was pulled as the fabric ripped and split.
‘Bitches! Ugly cows!’ Howling with rage and humiliation, she tried to hit and scratch and kick.
The women just laughed at her. They were enjoying themselves. Every just cause for jealousy was being avenged: Will’s desertion, Florrie’s spoilt wedding, the rift between Harry and Ellen, all the girls jilted because of her – it all came out in handfuls of dainty muslin.
From the other end of the street, the O’Donaghues and the Irish contingent waded in.
‘What are you doing to our Siobhan?’
‘Lay off, will you, or –’
‘Your Siobhan?’ the others flung back. ‘You related to this whore, then?’
Battle was joined. The street was a blur of yelling, punching, scratching women. Caught up with all the rest, Ellen found herself face to face with Siobhan. Skirt, bodice and petticoats had all come away and Siobhan was left standing in her corset and drawers, tears of hatred running down her face.
‘You – you done this!’ she screamed, and flew at Ellen, grabbing a handful of hair.
The unbearable strain of living with Gerry while rearing Harry’s child pounded in Ellen’s head and broke out in a fury of revenge. With a spurt of fierce pleasure, she slapped Siobhan hard round the face, glorying in the sting on her palm and the squeal from Siobhan. Her own head was being forced back by Siobhan’s grip on her hair. Twisting against the pressure, she sank her teeth into the enemy’s arm, and Siobhan let go with a cry of pain.
All restraint gone now, Ellen attacked, enjoying the rake of her nails on flesh, the tearing of hair coming out by the roots. Siobhan was wailing now, begging her to stop.
‘Stop? You should’ve stopped. You should’ve left us all alone. You’re the cause of all the trouble round here!’
She flew at her with renewed force, slapping her head from side to side. Siobhan tried to back away, tripped and fell sprawling on the cobbles. Ellen stood over her, hands on hips, breath rasping in her lungs.
‘Now,’ she gasped. ‘Now you know what it feels like.’
Siobhan’s lovely curls were a tangled mess, her remaining clothes were torn and she was bleeding from a dozen scratch-marks. Not taking her terrified eyes from Ellen’s face, she scrambled to her feet, then made a run for the safety of her own home.
‘She’s going, she’s going!’ someone shouted.
Howling and calling, the women pursued her. The front door was slammed in their faces and the bolts shot. Ragged cheers of victory arose. Cheated of their prey, they milled about, while the Irish retreated to their end of the street to mutter among themselves. Exhausted but elated, the others straggled back to their own front steps, agreeing amongst themselves that they had shown her what for. Ellen brewed up the last of her tea and they sat about, bruised and scratched and glowing with victory, and obscurely satisfied that they too had stood up for the values they believed in, whilst the toddlers gathered up the tattered remains of Siobhan’s clothing and sat in the road to play with them. If the shade of Theresa O’Donaghue was watching, she had cause to be well pleased.
Ellen lay awake long after Gerry had fallen asleep. Everyone had been up late, what with there being no work in the morning and then the parade and the fracas over Siobhan to chew over. Gerry had sat uncharacteristically silent as the others went over the day’s events. Ellen became very aware that it was true what they had said about him earlier: he was out of it. The strike affected his supplies and reduced his trade, but it did not change his life the way it had everyone else’s in the street. In fact, he had been strike-breaking, fetching that wonderful bargain from Stepney. To cover this, she kept trying to draw him in, and included him in her remarks and opinions.
‘Ain’t that so, Gerry? That’s what you always said, ain’t it, Gerry?’
It was only when they got to bed that he said what he really felt.
‘I’m surprised at you, Ellen. Scrapping with that Siobhan O’Donaghue. I never thought you was the sort.’
‘Huh! I can fight with the best of ’em when I have to. And I always hated that woman. Anyway, it weren’t me what started it, it was her. She come and picked on me. I was only defending myself.’
‘That’s as maybe. But it just goes to show what this strike is doing to people when women like you start getting into fights.’
Ellen stopped listening to him at this point, as little Tom was sick. All her concern now for him, she mopped him up.
‘That’s not like you, my pet. You ain’t a sicky baby. What’s the matter, eh? I hope you ain’t got the runs.’
Worried, she checked his nappy, though she could smell that he was all right. She was reassured to find that he was clean. Diarrhoea carried off more babies each year than any other disease. He was hot and fretful, though, hardly taking any feed, and it took her a long rime to soothe him to sleep. When she finally succeeded, she was still wide awake herself, and she lay listening to the breathing of her family around her.
In the quiet of the sultry night, Gerry’s words came back to her, and she had to admit, reluctantly, that he was right. She was not one to fight, unlike some of the women in the street who would fall out and come to blows over the slightest little incident. The last time she let fly at anyone was when she had found Siobhan and Harry together. As time trickled by, a niggling feeling of remorse crept in.
Hoofs and wheels could be heard out on the deserted street. Ellen slipped from the bed and crept downstairs. Peeping out through the parlour window, she saw a cab pull up outside Siobhan’s house and Siobhan herself ste
p down and pay off the cabby. On impulse, she snatched a shawl from the peg and stepped outside. She flew down the street and reached the door just as Siobhan was shutting it. She placed her foot in the gap.
‘Siobhan? Can I come in?’
A suspicious face appeared. ‘Ellen? What the devil do you want? I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘But I want to talk to you.’
She didn’t know quite why, just that it was important. She leant her shoulder against the door and pushed. With a sigh, Siobhan relented and let her in. There was a scratch of a match and then the lamp flared. Ellen caught her breath. She had heard rumours of the magnificence of Siobhan’s home, she had even seen the stuff going in, but it had not prepared her for the full effect. There was a blue and fawn patterned carpet square on the floor, where other people just had oilcloth. There were two upholstered armchairs covered in a flowery chintz. There were lamps with frilly shades. There was a sideboard with glassware that glistened and sparkled in the light. And all over the walls there were photographs of Siobhan in her many stage costumes, smiling, preening, asking to be admired. Speechless, Ellen could only gape.
‘Like it?’ Siobhan was watching her, that superior smile on her face again.
‘Very pretty,’ Ellen said.
Something was wrong, but she could not put her finger on it. She was too dazzled by the opulence. Instead she said, off the top of her head, ‘What happened to the conjuror?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The conjuror. What’s-his-name. The Great Cornelius.’
‘Oh, him. I gave him the push. He wasn’t good enough for me.’ She gave a shrug, as if the man had been nothing more than a troublesome fly, Ellen decided. Yet at the time she had been glad enough to drag him down here for Florrie’s wedding. Siobhan stood there in her fashionable gown, with the smell of greasepaint and powder still on her, not asking Ellen in as a neighbour might, just standing, barring the way further into the house.
‘Ain’t no one good enough for you, then?’ Ellen asked.
Trinidad Street Page 51
