‘It’s the going rate, miss.’
Careful not to open her purse too wide lest she lose any money, she felt gingerly among the coins, extracted two florins and a shilling and handed them over.
The driver went down a lane alongside the church and was swiftly swallowed by the darkness. Disorientated and half asleep, Edyth stepped cautiously on to the pavement. Jazz music wafted faintly in the hot, close air, along with ghostly, disembodied shouts and laughter. She was so relieved when the driver reappeared without her bag she had to stop herself from embracing him.
‘The vicarage is down there?’ she asked.
‘Behind the church, miss. I thought you said you knew the curate,’ he commented suspiciously.
‘I do, but I haven’t been here before.’
‘He is expecting you?’
She realised what the situation must look like to someone who didn’t know her or Peter. She imagined the driver relating the tale to his friends in a pub: ‘This young girl insisted I drive her to that new, good-looking young curate’s house after midnight. And she’d never even been there before.’
‘I should have been here hours ago. The train was delayed.’ She took comfort in the thought that it wasn’t exactly a lie.
‘Well, I’ve taken you to where you asked to go; you’re someone else’s problem now.’ The driver climbed back into his cab and drove off, leaving her standing on the pavement.
She looked up at the church. It was massive and imposing, with huge double doors set in a wide arch, and a peaked roof flanked by twin pyramid-capped towers. She had to step back into the road to see the whole building silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Peter’s parish was certainly impressive if the church was anything to go by.
A lamp burned on the pavement in front of the railings that separated the church grounds from the street, but the lane the driver had walked down was in darkness. Ignoring a group of women clustered around the lamps on the opposite side of the road, she steeled herself and braved the shadows. The high walls of the church on one side and the alleyway on the other blotted out the moon and for a moment she couldn’t see even a glimmer of light. Forced to feel her way along the wall, she suddenly regretted the impulse that had led her to set off for Cardiff as soon as her parents had left Swansea. It would have been more sensible to have waited a day and written to Peter to tell him she was coming. He could have met her train and helped with her luggage, and she wouldn’t have had to go to all the expense of tipping porters and paying a taxi driver double the rate.
It was only then that she realised why she hadn’t told Peter what she’d intended to do. The Church insisted on respectability above all else, and after seeing the reaction of the porter and the taxi driver, she knew a young girl who travelled to Butetown alone in the early hours of the morning would most certainly not be considered respectable by the Bishop or the Dean.
Peter would have done everything he could to dissuade her from coming to see him. He would have also pointed out that there was no guarantee that her parents would allow them to marry even if she left college. She’d risked her reputation by being out alone at night in an unsavoury area and – as another burst of raucous laughter resounded from the streets behind the walls – possibly worse.
A light shone ahead of her and the lane opened into a small yard. The high walls of an imposing three-storey house rose on her left; the light came from an outside lamp above the door. She walked towards it and saw her overnight case on the step. She reached up and pulled the bell. She had to tug on it twice more before footsteps resounded behind the door.
‘Who’s there?’ a woman shouted in a thick Scottish brogue.
‘My name is Edyth Evans. I am a friend of the Reverend Slater. I would like to see him.’
‘At this hour of the night?’ the woman shouted back suspiciously. ‘Is someone ill in your house?’
‘My train was delayed. If it hadn’t been, I would have been here hours ago.’
‘No decent woman would come calling at this time of night. Go away!’ The footsteps retreated.
Edyth opened the letterbox and shouted, ‘Please, I must see the Reverend Slater. If you tell him Edyth Evans is here, he will want to see me.’
‘I can’t tell Reverend Slater anything. He’s out at a sick bed. And even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t disturb his sleep for a mad woman.’
‘Out?’ Edyth repeated in bewilderment. That was one eventuality she hadn’t prepared for. ‘Please, will you tell me where he is?’
‘I will not. Sick people need peace and quiet in the middle of the night, not callers. And don’t touch that bell or shout through the letterbox again. The Reverend Richards is very ill.’
‘At least let me wait in the hall or the kitchen until Reverend Slater comes back,’ Edyth pleaded.
‘As if I’d let a stranger in the house in the middle of the night. The minute I’d drop off you’d steal us out of house and home, or burn the place down over our heads. Go away.’
‘Please, I don’t know anyone else around here.’
‘That is your problem,’ the merciless voice snapped.
‘At least tell me where I might find a hotel?’
‘There are plenty around here and in Cardiff, but no decent place will take someone in this time of night, let alone a young girl who’s up to no good.’
‘Please,’ Edyth begged.
‘Go away, or I’ll call the police. And I have a telephone here to do it.’
Edyth heard the ping of a telephone receiver being lifted off a cradle. She hesitated despite the threat.
‘If you don’t go away, the police will come and arrest you for disturbing the peace.’
Edyth picked up her overnight case and walked back down the lane to the church and Bute Street. She hadn’t thought the case heavy when she’d left home that morning, but now it seemed to weigh as much as her trunk. She stopped outside the church and looked up and down the street. Lamps pooled the darkness at intervals, but the areas in between were black and sinister.
The heat of the day still hung heavily in the air, and nothing moved, but she could hear a party of drunks belting out an unmelodic version of the sentimental Irish ballad, ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’. Live music was being played in the distance, the vibrant, toe-tapping tones of ‘Putting on the Ritz’.
She stood beneath the lamp in front of the church and dropped her case. The buildings around her were large and imposing, some with three and more storeys. A few of the windows on the upper floors had lace curtains and the drapes behind them were closed.
She imagined families sleeping in peaceful, orderly rooms, and wished she knew someone besides Peter in Tiger Bay. She could hardly go knocking on doors at this time of night to ask householders if they took in lodgers.
The music seemed to be coming from a large building opposite but the doors were closed and she wasn’t sure if her ears were playing tricks. Desperately hoping that a taxi would pass – and pick her up – she continued to stand, looking up and down the street, all the while willing Peter to appear. He had said in his letters that he had assumed all of Reverend Richards’s duties and the woman in the vicarage had told her he was at a sick bed.
How sick? Could he be at a deathbed? A deathbed vigil could last until dawn, and if there were relatives to comfort, Peter wouldn’t leave until his services were no longer required.
She glanced over her shoulder at the church. Surely, like all churches, it would be open and if it was, she could sit in a pew. Glad to have made a decision that required action she stooped to pick up her case.
‘What you doing on our patch?’ A thickset woman with improbably-dyed red hair loomed over her.
‘I …’ Edyth looked around. While she’d been debating what to do, the group of women she’d seen earlier had crossed the road and surrounded her. ‘I don’t understand.’ Intimidated, terrified, she retreated to the wall, only to have someone poke her painfully in the back.
‘This is our patch!�
� the girl shouted.
Edyth summoned all her courage. ‘This is a public street.’
‘It’s ours.’ The woman thumped Edyth painfully in the chest.
‘I want to go in the church –’
‘Tell us a story, why don’t you?’ The girl lifted her hand and slapped Edyth soundly across the face. Her head jerked back and hit the railings. The crack of her skull resounded in the darkened street.
Dazed and disorientated, Edyth tried to regain her balance, but the women gathered around her, pulling her hair and slapping and kicking her.
She opened her mouth to scream but the only sound she could make was a barely audible squeak. If it hadn’t been for the pain, she might have believed herself locked into a nightmare.
Jed King left Judy and his wife in the front parlour where his mother lay, finally still and peaceful. The doctor had warned them four hours ago that death was imminent, and he was finding the waiting an intolerable strain. He went into the back kitchen in search of tea. Not because he, Judy or his wife wanted any, but because he felt that he would go mad if he didn’t do something.
The room was full of family and neighbours, who had gathered silently and respectfully to honour his mother. He stood in the doorway and reflected that no one was allowed privacy in Tiger Bay. As babies they were born into houses crowded with well-wishers eager to catch the first glimpse of the newest arrival and press silver into their tiny hands ‘for luck’. And they drew their last breath surrounded by people anxious to ease their passing and comfort those left behind.
But there was one man, slumped, snoring and drunk, in his mother’s easy chair next to the range, who had no place in the house. Or indeed Tiger Bay. Jed wanted him out – now. He walked over to the chair and hauled him upright by his collar.
Joshua Hamilton woke with a start and glared balefully at Jed through pink-rimmed eyes. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jed?’ he demanded.
‘Throwing you out of my mother’s house, which is what I should have done when you had the nerve to show your face back here.’
‘Judy needs me.’
‘Your daughter needed you eighteen years ago when you walked out on her after her mother died.’
‘I love her,’ Joshua protested.
‘Which is why you came to see her every time you were ashore, and sent my mother money to keep her all these years – I don’t think?’ Jed mocked scornfully.
‘Jed, you were a seaman,’ Joshua whined. ‘You know what it’s like to go from ship’s berth to ship’s berth, country to country. It’s not my fault it’s taken me years to work my passage back to Cardiff. I came as soon as I could.’
‘Destitute, broke and drunk. And you didn’t even have the common courtesy to go to the doss house. Instead you came here to sponge off the flesh and blood you would have dumped in the workhouse if my mother hadn’t taken her in.’
‘Jed?’ His wife opened the door. ‘Your mother and Judy can hear the shouting,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry, it’s about to stop.’ Jed clamped his hand over Joshua’s mouth and nodded to Tony and Ron. The three brothers lifted Joshua between them and carried him out of the house and down the street. They dropped him a hundred yards from the front door.
Fuming, Jed clambered to his feet. ‘I’ve a right to see my daughter.’
‘But not to stay in my mother’s house or pawn her belongings. You think my brothers and I are stupid?’ Jed challenged. ‘Didn’t you realise that we would miss the china dogs that have stood in her fireplace for years?’
Joshua tossed out one last desperate lie. ‘Judy asked me to hock them. She said she needed the money for medicine.’
‘It was Judy who noticed they were missing,’ Jed growled. ‘Sober or drunk, don’t come back, Joshua. Not if you want to live to a ripe old age.’
‘Stay away, if you know what’s good for you,’ Tony shouted as Joshua shambled off.
The anger that sustained Jed was replaced by an overwhelming tide of grief. He put his hands on his brothers’ shoulders. ‘Now that we’ve put out the rubbish, let’s go back and say goodbye to Mam.’
Born accident-prone, Edyth had broken both her legs, arms and skull at various times when she was growing up. She’d fallen off horses, down stairs, out of trees and, on one spectacular occasion, from the roof of her Uncle Victor’s barn. But every injury had been self-inflicted and accidental. No one had ever hit her in anger and, for the first few moments of the attack, she simply couldn’t believe it was actually happening.
She came to her senses when she heard the sound of her hair being torn out by the roots. She dropped her overnight case and handbag, lifted her arms over her head and tried to protect herself. After two barely audible croaks, she finally found her voice and screamed loudly, in the hope that someone would hear and help her. But her cries only resulted in the women intensifying their attack. Covering as much of her head and face as she could with her hands, she tried to escape. But no sooner did she elbow one woman out of the way and gain an inch of ground, than another closed in.
Fingers padlocked around her wrists and forced her downwards. She was hemmed in by a forest of bare legs and feet encased in high-heeled shoes. The kicking started the moment her knees hit the pavement, the toes and heels of the women’s evening shoes connecting with her back, arms and thighs. Curled into the foetal position, she breathed in the sour stench of the women’s sweat and smelled their breath, a rank mixture of beer, whisky and undigested food, the whole permeated by a mix of sickly sweet, cheap scent.
The sharp sound of cloth tearing rent the air. To her horror, she realised they were stripping her frock from her. She made one last valiant effort to free her wrists. When that failed, she lowered her head, sank her teeth into the nearest hand and bit down with all her strength.
A woman yelped and sprang back, tearing her dress even more. Edyth took full advantage of the momentary diversion, lifted her head and screamed with all her might. Even her blood ran cold, as her cry echoed hollowly down the street.
Her neck bones cricked when her head was yanked back by her hair. She stared up at the stars and full, bright moon. A hand closed into a fist in front of her eyes and pulled back in preparation to slam into her unprotected face. But miraculously it froze in mid-air.
‘What you doing, Anna girl?’ a man asked in a Caribbean accent. ‘You don’ want to kill no sister goodtime girl, now do you?’
‘Let me go, Sam.’ The red-headed woman rounded soundly on the speaker, slapping his face with her free hand.
Edyth took advantage of the diversion and gasped for breath. For the first time she was conscious of hot, sticky blood running down her face and arms. She retched, but there was nothing in her stomach to vomit. A draught blew across her bare skin and she retched again.
An Irish woman cried out, ‘Watch your frocks, girls, she’s throwing up.’
The rest of the women stepped away from her. Edyth felt herself slipping into unconsciousness. It would be so easy to lie down on the pavement and close her eyes … She moved her hand in front of her face, and fought with what little strength remained to keep alert.
More shadowy figures materialised, merging with those of the women around her. There was a hubbub of angry conversation. A strongly muscled, bare black arm reached down to her.
‘Come on, love, the pavement’s no place for a young girl to sleep. That’s it, ups-a-daisy, on your feet. Can you stand?’
Too shocked to think, let alone answer, she wrapped her arms around her rescuer’s chest and clung to him.
‘You all right, miss?’
Edyth stared blankly up into the face of a black man, who was looking down at her in concern.
‘Here, miss, tie your dress together.’ A handkerchief was pushed into her hand. She took it, but the dark mist continued to veil her eyes and she saw only segments of the scene around her, as though she were trapped inside a telescope.
Nailed boots rang out and a strong masculine voic
e rose above the hubbub. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘New girl’s working our patch, Murphy,’ the red-head yelled angrily.
A wit shouted, ‘The lady doesn’t want to play with Anna and the girls, constable. And we don’t think they should try to make her.’ A burst of laughter followed the quip.
‘They were slapping her around.’
‘If we hadn’t come along and stopped them, you’d have had a murder on your hands, copper.’
Constable Murphy stood in Edyth’s line of vision and pushed his helmet to the back of his head. ‘That’s what I like to see, boys, public-spirited locals. I won’t forget to tell the sergeant about your good deed.’ He lifted his hand to his mouth and the piercing sound of a police whistle brought the thunder of more hobnailed boots. A dozen or more officers appeared. They turned to Edyth, who was still being held upright by the black man.
‘Anna’s been beating up a new girl,’ Murphy shouted to his colleagues.
‘Grab as many as you can, coppers,’ one of the Negroes shouted, as the police ran around trying to round up the women, who were now charging off in different directions.
‘They’re slippery as eels and sting like wasps, especially in your wallet,’ another yelled.
The crowd of men stood back, laughing and jeering, as the police officers continued to chase the women. Too quick for the constables, who were hampered by their thick uniforms and truncheons, most disappeared up dark alleyways. But a few fell prey. And every time one was caught, she screamed, reminding Edyth of the noise her Uncle Victor’s pigs made at farrowing time.
‘Here, miss.’ The man who was holding her helped her back to the railings, but he continued to support her until the bizarre chase was over.
‘I’d say you lost about three-quarters of them, coppers,’ a cheery voice shouted from the crowd of onlookers.
‘Jones, go down the station and get the Black Maria out. I’d say we’ve found a full night’s work for the desk clerk,’ Murphy ordered a handsome, fair-haired policeman, who looked considerably younger than his colleagues.
‘Serve bloody Pugh right for organising himself a cushy number,’ another officer grumbled.
Tiger Bay Blues Page 15
