‘Come on,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m taking you home.’
She let him take charge, raising no protest against the criminal expense when he hailed a cab and bundled her into it. They sat squashed together in the stuffy interior. Percy was still holding her hand.
‘He – er – he . . .’ Percy began, and faltered to an embarrassed halt.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. She had no tears left now. Her voice was hoarse and her throat aching, but it was nothing to the terrible pain inside. One son dying, the other dead. Everything had been taken away from her.
He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘He was a good boy, your Gerry. And you was always a good mum. No one could’ve had a better mum than you. He was lucky there.’
She nodded. It did nothing to ease the hurt, but she recognized that he was trying to comfort her. She gave voice to the very worst part of all.
‘Oh, Perce, I never said goodbye to him. I was in bed when he left for work and I never got up to say goodbye. And then he never woke up in the hospital. Oh, Perce, if only I’d got up.’
‘You wasn’t to know, girl. It was just another day. You wasn’t to know that he wasn’t, well . . .’
‘I know, but it don’t make it any better. He’s gone without me saying goodbye.’
She would never be able to make it right now. The awful finality of it washed over her again. He had gone. A low moan escaped from her very soul.
Percy took her hand between his two great meaty paws. ‘We’ll give him a good send-off, girl. The whole works. And drinks for everyone to remember him by in the Puncheon after.’
‘Oh, God.’ She had not thought of the funeral. She hadn’t a penny to pay for it. All her life she had spent everything as soon as it came into her hand.
‘Now don’t you go worrying about anything. I’ll see to it. I got savings. I’ll see he’s sent off proper.’
‘Oh no, Percy.’ She came out of her miasma of loss enough to realize that this was not right. ‘No, you can’t do that. He’s –’ She stopped, and for the first of many times, corrected herself. ‘He was my boy.’
For a while they were both silent, while the cab creaked round them. Alma had no idea where they were. Percy could be taking her anywhere, and she did not care. Nothing mattered any more.
‘Look, er –’ Percy began, an unusual hesitancy in his voice. ‘I know this ain’t the best time for it. In fact, I s’pose it’s the worst time for it, but I got to say it. I been wanting to say it for a long time now. Weeks. I want you to marry me, Alma. I want you to be my old lady. Will you, Alma? Let me take care of you, eh? What d’you say? Will you?’
‘What? Oh I don’t know, Percy, I can’t say. I just can’t say.’ She could not fully take in what he was saying.
‘I’ll take care of you, Alma. A woman like you, you need someone to take care of you. Since you come to work at the Puncheon, I been looking forward to you arriving each day. It don’t feel right when you’re not there. I need you there, Alma. I – well – got very fond of you.’
The words buzzed and jangled round her head, making no sense. She could think of nothing but the still figure on the bed, the great aching void in her heart. But this solid male presence was a vague comfort. She would certainly rather he was there than not. She gave his hand a feeble squeeze.
‘Later, Percy,’ she said. ‘Later.’
‘Yeah, right.’ He was contrite. ‘I knew it was the wrong time. I just couldn’t help it. But let me take care of the funeral, Alma. Let me do that.’
‘Yeah.’ She hadn’t the strength to resist him. ‘Yeah, if you want to. Thanks.’
He patted her knee. ‘I’ll do it right. You wait and see. You won’t regret it.’
People were in and out all day, saying what a fine man Gerry had been, what a dear little boy Tom had been, saying how sorry they were, what a loss it was, how they felt for her. And all the while Ellen mechanically thanked them and said no, there wasn’t anything they could do for her right now. After all, nothing was going to bring them back. Jessica and Teddy clung to her like two little wraiths, bewildered by what was going on around them, not understanding why their mother was crying and their granny was crying, or why their father did not come home. Ellen hugged them to her, taking what scant comfort she could from the small round bodies.
Then there was the agony of the funerals. First Tom was buried, in his pathetically tiny coffin, then, after a post-mortem, Gerry. Ellen did not know how she got through the days. Having to look after the little ones helped. She could not be totally absorbed in her grief when they needed her so much. And her family was around her. Martha came every day; so did Daisy, and so did Maisie, though Ellen usually ended up supporting her. But it was Florrie who helped the most. With Florrie she could be totally open.
‘Aunty Alma’s off up the Puncheon again, then,’ Florrie remarked one day.
‘Yeah, she spends all her time up there now.’
‘D’you reckon she’ll marry Percy?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised. When she’s got over it a bit. She was that close to Gerry.’
Florrie looked at her for a moment, then she said, ‘Just as you was to little Tom.’
Ellen held her eyes. There was something waiting to be said, and she was not quite sure what it was, only that Florrie knew she still had a lot locked up inside her.
‘I had to come home,’ she said defensively. ‘I had to choose between them, and I had to come to Tom. Gerry had Alma there. But Tom was so little, he was my baby, I couldn’t let him go all alone.’
‘Of course not. You done the right thing, Ellen. You was with him when he went. So why are you still blaming yourself for leaving Gerry?’
‘Because . . .’ The pressure of guilt had always been there. It had built up almost unbearably on the night he was injured. Now she could hold it back no longer. ‘Because I didn’t love him. Not proper, like I ought to. I was – I was fond of him, like I’m fond of your Jimmy or Daisy’s Wilf. I didn’t even love him like what I do our Jack or Will. Like, they drive me silly sometimes, ’specially Will, but I love them just the same, ’cos they’re my brothers. But Gerry – it, well, it just wasn’t the same . . .’ She trailed off. It all sounded so lame. For a dreadful moment, she was seized with a doubt as to whether even Florrie would understand. But Florrie was nodding in sympathy.
‘You made him happy, you know. That’s what counts. He never knew.’
‘But I knew!’ Ellen burst out. ‘I knew. I was wicked, Florrie. It was all my fault. I was wicked and now I been punished. Gerry and Tom have both been taken away from me and I’ll never be able to make it up to him.’
Florrie was silent, waiting. Ellen took a breath. She could not quite meet her friend’s gaze.
‘Tom wasn’t Gerry’s baby, you know.’
Florrie reached out and took her restless hands. ‘I guessed that. He was Harry’s, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Her whisper was so low it was hardly audible.
‘Harry’s been ever so upset too, you know. Ever so. But he can’t show it.’
‘Oh.’ In her preoccupation with her own loss, she had not thought of Harry’s. It brought a new source of pain and guilt. ‘I never thought – but that’s someone else I hurt. I didn’t ought to live. I just hurt people.’
‘Ellen!’ Florrie jumped up. Ellen looked at her in amazement. Her friend was glaring down at her, arms akimbo, stiff with anger. ‘For God’s sake, stop it! You’re being bloody stupid. You’re just heaping blame on yourself, like you’re enjoying it. I could – I could shake you, I really could. You just stop it, d’you hear? You was a good wife to Gerry, you’re a lovely mum to them kids, you’re a good daughter to your mum and dad and you’re the best friend I’ll ever have. So what if you and Harry went off that day? Where’s the harm? You suffered enough for it since, so stop piling it on. You got to get up and go on. We all got secrets we got to live with, God knows.’
For several moments Ellen just gaped at her, stunned. Nobody had giv
en her a talking-to like that for years, not even her mum. And as the words sank slowly into her head, she realized they were true. She was almost enjoying making the pain worse. She opened and closed her mouth, but nothing came out.
‘There! That told you, didn’t it?’ Florrie declared triumphantly. ‘You just think on that, Ellen Billingham.’
‘I – I –’ Ellen stuttered.
Then, to her amazement, Florrie’s face began to twitch. First her lips, then her eyes. She made a great effort to control herself, but there was no stopping it. Laughter bubbled through.
‘Oh, Ellen,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Ellen, if you could see your face! It’s a picture, it really is – an – an army could walk inside of your mouth and you’d not notice.’
A strange feeling began inside her as she watched her friend. Florrie was hysterical, doubled up, with tears streaming down her face. Slowly, she stood up. A smile was beginning to pull at her own mouth. She held out her arms, and Florrie fell into them. The two women hugged each other, laughing and crying until they did not know which was which.
When they finally subsided into sobs and hiccups, they were both weak and aching. Ellen made tea and they both looked out to check up on the children. Jessica was proudly minding Florrie’s little George, wheeling him up and down the street. Ellen watched her as she bent over the ancient pram, tenderly tucking in a sheet where the baby had kicked it off. Into the hollow left by so much spent emotion, Florrie’s words came echoing back.
‘Florrie,’ she said. ‘What did you mean by “We all got secrets”?’
‘Well, you know . . .’
‘Your dad, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But I thought that was . . .’
After being so tied up in herself, she found the sudden release made her see more clearly.
‘I thought that was all over and done with,’ she said slowly, watching Florrie’s face.
Florrie said nothing.
‘Do you mean to tell me . . .? Florrie, you ain’t still carrying that around with you, are you? You mean you ain’t never told your Jimmy?’
Florrie shook her head.
‘But you was going to tell him on your wedding night. You said you was. We talked about it the night before. I remember it like it was yesterday.’
‘I know, I know.’ Florrie’s features creased into helpless frustration. ‘But when it come to it, I couldn’t. Not then. I mean, not on our wedding night. And after that, it was on the tip of my tongue dozens of times. I really meant to tell him, Ellen. I wanted to, but – I never got it out. It was never quite the right moment.’
‘So you gone on keeping it from him?’
‘Yeah,’ Florrie admitted. ‘And now it’s too late. I can’t tell him now.’
Ellen took the first decision she had made since Gerry and Tom died. She caught Florrie by the arm and looked at her in the eyes.
‘Oh yes you can. You done me a favour telling me what for. Now I’m going to do the same to you. You can’t keep it to yourself no longer, Florrie. It ain’t fair to you and it ain’t fair to Jimmy neither. It’s like you don’t trust him. You got to promise me you’ll tell him.’
‘But – but I can’t. It’s much too late.’
‘Promise! Promise or – or I’ll never speak to you again. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
Florrie looked at her. They both giggled feebly at the old childish threat.
‘All right,’ Florrie agreed. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’
Two days later, Florrie came flying over the road while Ellen was still scrubbing the step.
‘Ellen, Ellen, I got to tell you . . .’
Ellen took a quick glance up and down the street to where other women were busy with their brushes and pails. You could almost see the interest quickening.
‘Come inside,’ she said.
They sat down at the kitchen table. Florrie was glowing. She could hardly keep still.
‘I did it, Ellen. I told him. I really did.’
‘You never!’
‘I did an’ all. I can’t hardly believe it. I was so nervous, I couldn’t hardly speak. My throat all closed up. But I thought of you, and how you said I got to, and somehow I done it. I told him. And Ellen, he was wonderful. He said, “I’d’ve done just the same in your place, girl. Don’t you think no more about it.” Oh, Ellen, it’s such a weight off my mind, I can’t tell you. It’s like a big cloud’s been lifted. There’s always been this thing between me and Jimmy, keeping us apart, and now it’s gone.’
‘I’m so pleased for you. I really am.’ Ellen smiled at her shining face.
‘And it’s all down to you, Ellen. I wouldn’t never have done it if it wasn’t for you making me. I’d’ve gone on keeping it all inside of me, and it would’ve made things all wrong with me and Jimmy, and that would’ve been dreadful, ’cos I really do love him. He’s the best, he is. Just look at how he took it! On my side without even thinking about it. Knew I was right, whatever. That’s how he is.’
‘You’re good for each other, you two.’ Ellen said. ‘I’m so pleased. It makes me all warm inside to see people like you and Jimmy, and my mum and dad, and now Alma and Percy. Like, it is possible to be happy.’
Florrie leant forward. ‘It’s because of you, Ellen,’ she said earnestly. ‘With me and Jimmy, that is. You are good for people. You do believe that, don’t you? You do believe it wasn’t because of what you done that Gerry and Tom died?’
Ellen smiled back at her, taking pleasure from the knowledge that for Florrie and Jimmy there was going to be a marriage that would hold true whatever life might throw at them.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do see that now. I think I was off my head a bit.’
‘And it will get better, you know. Maybe you won’t never really get over little Tom, but you will be happy again some day. I know you will.’
Ellen could not quite believe that, not at that moment. But, for Florrie, she was willing to try.
‘We’ll see,’ was all she could say.
6
THE RIVER SLID smooth and calm, steel-grey beneath a pale blue sky. It was a still March afternoon with a promise of spring in the air. Ellen sat on the top step of the Torrington Stairs. She liked to come here on a Sunday. It got her away from Trinidad Street and the continual claustrophobic discussion of everyone’s doings. There was space to collect her thoughts.
Below her, Jess and Teddy played on the edge of the dirty strip of pebbles, poking about in the mess of flotsam and jetsam, lobbing stones to land with a satisfying splat in the ooze. Beyond them, the evil-smelling low-water mud banks gleamed grey-brown, fringed with filthy scum. The river was settled into its Sunday quiet, with only the odd few vessels moving. Ellen watched a stately old three-master being towed downstream by a steam tug, and a couple of lighters coming down on the ebb, while a boy in a skiff sculled between ships in the tiers and the shore, running errands. It being Sunday, the factories and foundries and repair yards were shut for the day and the air was free of their clamour. Behind her, the drinkers in the Torrington Arms could be heard, but she could easily ignore them. They were not her friends or neighbours, they would make no demands on her. Ellen let the peace wrap round her. It was nice here; just herself, and the children playing contentedly together at the foot of the steps. It was soothing to sit and watch the water slipping away to the distant sea.
She tried to think of nothing at all, to let her mind drift with the boats going by. The recent past was too painful to dwell upon, and she was only now beginning to come to terms with it; the future was unsure. Better to chase it all away, to become still and empty. But try as she might, thoughts and images kept crowding in. So much of her life was tied up with the river. The highlights kept coming back to taunt her – the day they all went to Southend, the day she and Harry went to Battersea.
The skiff passed close by. It was just like the one she and Harry had gone in. She heard the creak of the oars in the rowlocks, the dip of the blades in the w
ater. She could almost feel the lift of the waves beneath her. She was out there again, the sun dancing on the river, Harry’s feet braced on either side of her as he rowed, a whole daring adventure in front of them.
To Harry, coming across from the Torrington Arms, she seemed still and distant and alone. It wrung his heart to see her there all by herself, staring at the river. He had to try to break through, to find her again.
‘Ellen?’
She started, then turned slowly round, a hand pressed tightly to her chest. Her eyes widened slightly on recognizing him, but he could not tell whether she was pleased to see him or not. He stepped forward so that he was standing beside her.
‘Can I join you?’
For a long and nerve-stretching moment he thought she was going to refuse. Then she gave a brief nod.
‘Y– yeah. ’Course.’
He found that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a great sigh of relief and sat down on the top step, carefully leaving a good yard separating them.
‘Nice day,’ he remarked, starting on neutral ground.
‘Yeah. Quiet. I like it quiet.’
The children caught sight of him and came scampering up the slippery steps to hurl themselves at him.
‘Uncle Harry! Shell. Look!’
‘I made a dock. Come and see my dock.’
He obligingly looked and admired, then pushed them away. ‘Go and play now, your mum wants a bit of peace.’
They both watched as Jess and Teddy settled back into their games.
He ventured a compliment. ‘They’re fine kids. A credit to you.’
It was as if the old Ellen had come back again. Her drawn face lit from within and real enthusiasm lifted her voice.
‘They’re that bright an’ all. Little Teddy, he’s sharp as a barrowload of monkeys. Never misses a trick, he don’t. And Jess, she picks words out of books I read, she does. She’s going to go to the Central if it’s the last thing I do. She’s going to get her chance. I don’t care if I have to work for the rest of my life, but she’s going to get a proper education.’
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