by Irene Carr
Sophie grinned at him. ‘I haven’t been in here before. I suppose you’re a regular.’
‘Oh, aye. Not in this bar, mind.’ He could only afford an occasional beer.
‘Where, then?’
With that encouragement he told her about the boxing club and Joe Nolan. Then when Sophie pressed him he told her about his job. ‘I work at Ballantyne’s. To tell you the truth I was taken on by the old man himself – Mr Ballantyne.’
Sophie’s lips twitched, wondering how her father would react to being the ‘old man’. ‘Really?’
‘Aye. I was asking the foreman for a job – he’s a feller called Gallagher, a right—’ He stopped then. ‘Well, anyway, Gallagher wasn’t having any of it but Ballantyne came out of the office and said, “Take him on.”’ He told her of the hardships of the work and the rough humour, of the differing characters in the gang in which he worked. ‘They’re a good set o’ lads, bar Gallagher and McNally.’
Sophie asked, ‘Do you all hate those two?’
‘No. It’s just me. Some o’ the other fellers don’t like them although they all get along in the yard. But I know something they don’t.’
‘What’s that?’
He wouldn’t tell her, knowing that if Gallagher found out his secret he would try to shut Peter’s mouth. Peter remembered Harry Henderson’s still and twisted body where it had fallen from the staging.
Sophie was attracted by this young man, who was not handsome nor well dressed but had an open, honest face that was sombre now.
He shrugged and grinned, embarrassed, and tried to change the subject. ‘Never mind. Where do you work?’
Sophie sidestepped the question. ‘Over the bridge.’ That was barely true – so far as she worked at all it was in her school on the other side of the river. However, it implied she had a job somewhere in the town and Peter took it to mean just that, as she knew he would. She glanced at her watch and stood up. ‘I’ll have to be getting home.’
Peter said, ‘That’s a nice watch.’ He stared at it on her wrist. No working girl could afford a watch like that.
Sophie said quickly, ‘My father gave it to me last Christmas.’ That was true.
Peter grinned. ‘He must have had a winner up or got a club out.’ They were the only sources of large sums of money so far as he knew: a win on the horses or a five-pound or ten-pound voucher obtained from a store, spent there and repaid with interest spread over several months.
Sophie understood about the horses but was baffled by the reference to a club. When her parents made a purchase they paid cash or had it charged to their account at the shop. She smiled brightly and said, ‘That’s right.’ Sophie moved towards the door and Peter went with her.
He offered, ‘I’ll see you home.’
‘No! Thanks, but it’s away over the water.’ She saw his disappointment and didn’t want to leave anyway but knew she had to. ‘Could you come as far as the tram?’
Outside the streets glittered wetly in the light of the lamps. Sophie pulled on her raincoat, bulky with her other clothes crammed into the pockets. She and Peter hurried through the dark streets, some still cobbled, others black tarmacadam. The wind off the sea drove a fine drizzle at their backs. They came to the Wheatsheaf, a pub that stood on a junction where three tram routes met, and Peter said, ‘Stand in here.’ He pulled her into a shop doorway where they were out of the worst of the rain. ‘What tram do you want?’
Sophie replied, still evasive, ‘Any that goes over the bridge.’
‘Where do you live, then?’
Sophie could not answer that, sensed that if he found out who she was he would break off the young and fragile relationship. She did not want that. She was still excited by her success that night and the whole adventure. She saw her tram come rocking around the bend in the road, clanking over the maze of points. A shift of the wind sent the rain driving into their shelter and their faces. Sophie stopped Peter’s questions by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him on the mouth. Then she broke away and ran for her tram.
Peter followed her for a few strides, but the tram was already moving again, Sophie swinging up on to the platform beside the conductor. Peter saw her face turned towards him, laughing, and saw her wave a hand, heard her call, ‘See you here next week! Eight o’clock!’
‘Aye!’ he shouted, then walked home jauntily.
‘Goodnight, Sarah.’ Chrissie Ballantyne said it quietly but startled the girl as she entered the hotel by the back door.
‘Oh! Goodnight, Mrs Ballantyne.’ Sarah flushed as she shook the rain from her hair, embarrassed at being found entering so late. She headed for the stairs that would take her to her room, praying that Mrs Ballantyne would not ask where she had been.
Chrissie did not. She guessed that Sarah had been working somewhere, remembered how she herself had worked when she was Sarah’s age. Besides, she reasoned, she was not the child’s guardian. Having said that, however, she would keep an eye on the girl and if it looked as though she was doing too much, then that would be the time to spell out the law.
Chrissie had dined at her new Ballantyne Hotel and worked late there, partly as there was work to be done but mainly because Jack was still away and would be for another week or more. Before she left that evening Chrissie walked through the building, savouring again the pride in completing it in such a short time, looking it over lovingly. So she had happened to be around when Sarah Tennant returned.
Now she went on to the yard at the back and climbed into the driving seat of the Ford. The wipers swept the rain from the windscreen as she drove home to the Ballantyne house in Ashbrooke. There she found Sophie, scrubbed clean of make-up and curled up in bed, listening dreamy eyed to music on her radio and recalling her triumph on stage – and Peter Robinson.
Chrissie smiled and said, ‘Hello.’
Sophie waggled long fingers at her. ‘Hello, Mummy.’ Then the fingers went back to tapping out the beat.
Chrissie asked, ‘Was it a good picture?’
Sophie remembered the excuse she had given earlier, that she was going to the cinema. Now she said neutrally, ‘Mm!’
Chrissie could not help comparing Sophie’s childhood with that of her own. ‘When I was your age I was a housekeeper, cooking and cleaning, at the Frigate,’ she mused. Before that, at fourteen, she had cooked and cleaned for a household of eight working men.
Sophie’s lips twitched but she answered solemnly, ‘Yes, Mummy. I’ve heard of it. Over in Monkwearmouth, isn’t it?’ She recalled the startled look on Helen’s face that evening in the Frigate when she saw Sophie in the dress she had borrowed from her mother’s wardrobe, but she kept her face straight and went on, ‘You’ve told me all about that before, Mummy. It’s history.’
Chrissie thought that young Sarah Tennant had worked since she was fourteen and cared for her ailing mother, while Sophie was only interested in her music and dreamed of being a singer, like her grandmother, Vesta Nightingale. Chrissie had received love and care not from Vesta Nightingale, her natural mother, but from Mary Carter, who had adopted her when she was abandoned by Vesta. And it was Mary’s upbringing that had set Chrissie on the path in life that would lead her to success and a happy marriage with Jack Ballantyne. Chrissie was determined to give the same love and care to her own children – but now was not the time to labour the point. She sighed. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’ This time Sophie blew a kiss from her long fingers and Chrissie went away somewhat comforted.
She slept alone and not well. Jack had not written for a week and they had parted coldly.
12
Jack Ballantyne had difficulty keeping his eyes off Angélique. Her dark eyes had cast him smouldering looks all through dinner. Her jet-black hair was expensively coiffed, her body expensively clothed. The silk gown was cut low to show off her full breasts and fitted her haunches like a second skin. The skirt flared out but its fullness still clung and moulded itself to the long, slender legs. She knew the e
ffect she was having and smiled.
Her husband did not seem to notice. He was a shipowner, with nearly a dozen vessels in his fleet, and Jack was trying to sell him another. Jean-François sat gaunt and drawn at the head of the table, a frail old shadow of the lusty man Jack had once known. His young wife of barely two years was seated at its foot. Jack sat halfway down the long table and tried to share his gaze equally between them. The three servants, all elderly men, moved soft-footed and silent around the room and Jack never saw a change of expression on any of their faces. Jack remembered all of them from his previous visits, but he had not met Angélique before.
The house stood between Cannes and Nice on the Côte d’Azur, because Jean-François had substantial interests in both places. It was palatial, built on a hillside, and this huge dining-room looked out over the Mediterranean.
Dinner was over and the servants cleared the table. Jean-François never talked business during a meal but now he said, ‘I am tempted to give you the contract for old times’ sake.’ Ballantyne’s yard had built several ships for him. Then he went on, ‘But our own French yards need the work and they are cheaper.’
Jack knew why they were cheaper: because of the subsidies they were paid they were always able to undercut his price. He said nothing of that – had learnt never to complain when bargaining – and Jean-François knew of the subsidies anyway. Instead Jack smiled easily and said, ‘Of course I appreciate that, but there is also the question of workmanship. Ballantyne’s can match anyone in the world there. And then there’s delivery. We can guarantee . . .’ As he talked, one of the servants re-entered the room and murmured into Jean-François’ ear. He nodded and held up a bony finger, its joints misshapen. The servant stepped back a pace and waited behind his master’s chair.
Jean-François let Jack make his points and finish, then nodded his appreciation of the arguments put forward and said, ‘I will sleep on it. Now I have a visitor.’ He nodded and the servant left the room. Jean-François inclined his head again, this time to his wife, and suggested, ‘Perhaps you would like to entertain Jacques with coffee and cognac on the terrace. Henri Dupuis has come up with some papers I asked for. I’ll see him in here.’
The servant returned then, ushering in a man in his thirties wearing a neat, dark business suit and carrying a briefcase. Jean-François introduced him: ‘Henri’s father was my lawyer and good friend for many years. Now his father has died and Henri has taken over the task.’
Henri smiled a wide smile, thin moustache over thin lips. ‘No burden; a pleasure.’ He turned the smile on Angélique. ‘Madame.’ She only nodded, and did not glance his way.
She was already rising, one of the servants snatching away her chair. ‘Shall we, M’sieur Ballantyne?’
Jack followed her out to the terrace where they were served with coffee. He refused cognac at first, wanting to keep a clear head for one last attempt to obtain Jean-François’ signature on a contract on the morrow. Angélique pouted and complained, ‘Must I drink alone?’ so he accepted the glass and they talked, looking out over the sea far below. She questioned him about his wife and then summarised his answers: ‘So your wife has three nearly grown-up children and she is a woman of business. But what business is she up to now, while you are away?’ Jack smiled politely and she laughed, held out her glass for the servant behind her to refill. It was her third.
A staircase at each end of the terrace led to another terrace above. The bedrooms up there also looked out to the sea. Jack’s was one of them and now he saw the lights go on in another. That was Jean-François’ room and he saw the shipowner’s bent frame moving against the lights before a servant drew the curtains.
Angélique had seen this, too. She drawled, ‘We live very quietly here. My husband, as you know, is an old man. The house is full of old men, even the chef is over sixty. I have my maid, of course.’ Her eyes slid to Jack as she murmured, ‘I’ve sent her to bed.’ She sipped her cognac then said, ‘He is interested only in ships. But not yours.’ She laughed.
Jack said, ‘I think he will be interested,’ although he thought nothing of the sort. ‘He said he would sleep on it.’
Angélique laughed again, unpleasantly, and waved a hand dismissively at the servant, who had stood like a statue in the shadows, blank faced and eyes distant, ignored. Now he turned and walked silently away. Angélique gulped another mouthful of cognac and said thickly, ‘He will sleep, yes. You understand, I am just a chatelaine, a housekeeper for him. He retires early, his servants put him to bed and he takes sleeping pills.’ Jack knew it was to kill the pain of arthritis that made all Jean-François’ waking hours a torment. His wife went on, ‘He will be unconscious now. And I think it is time we retired.’ She drained her glass and stood up, smoothing the thin dress down her body, licking her wet lips that were curved in a smile of invitation and hunger. She said, ‘Do not concern yourself for your ship. I will speak to him. He listens to me.’
Jack saw that the lights were out in Jean-François’ room, and elsewhere in the house, except on this terrace on which he stood, and one faint glow that marked Angélique’s room on the terrace above. All the servants had vanished. He and the woman were alone.
Jack followed her as she slowly climbed the stairs, knowing that she knew he was watching her body, and that he could not help it. The french windows opening on to her room stood open and she turned into it. Jack caught a glimpse of the single small light by the big bed, saw that there was no maid and that Angélique was alone, standing before the light so he could see her body through the dress.
‘Good morning, Sarah!’ Sophie smiled brightly. ‘Have you met my big brother, Tom?’ She was passing through the foyer of the Ballantyne Hotel with Tom, who had come home from Newcastle for the weekend. She had spoken tongue in cheek, knowing full well that the two had met before, and seen each other, although only in passing, on several of Tom’s weekend visits. Sarah, stepping out of the lift with a sackful of linen, busy servicing her rooms on the floor above, knew she was teasing. Sarah also knew that Sophie had guessed that Sarah was fond of her brother, and blushed accordingly.
Only Tom did not see what was going on and answered politely, ‘We’ve met. Hello, Sarah.’ He thought she was a nice enough kid. A bit shy, though, turning red like that every time she met someone. He asked, ‘Is Mrs Ballantyne about?’
Sarah answered, ‘I think she’s in her office,’ then she hurried away.
Tom and Sophie found Chrissie there. She asked, ‘What are you two up to?’
‘I’ve come into town to buy some books and thought I’d look in and see you,’ Tom replied. ‘You’d gone out before I got up this morning.’
Sophie said, ‘I’ve come in to do some shopping as well.’
Chrissie said, ‘Oh, yes?’ and waited, but Sophie did not ask for a loan. Chrissie wondered about that, not knowing that Sophie still had in her purse most of the ten shillings she had won. She said, ‘I’m glad to see you’re managing your allowance better.’
Sophie only smiled, but Tom had looked more closely at Chrissie and now asked, ‘Are you worried about something, Mother?’
Chrissie blinked at him, startled, and instinctively denied it. ‘No! Why?’
‘You’re looking tired.’
Sophie glanced from one to the other, surprised that Tom had seen something she had missed, but now she said, ‘That’s right, Mummy. You look worn out.’
Chrissie had not slept well and knew why, but she lied, ‘I’m not worried. It’s just that I’ve been working pretty hard since the old place burned down to get this hotel opened. I’ll have to take things a little easier now – and I should be able to.’ Secretly she thought, If only I had some word from Jack.
Jack and Jean-François had breakfasted on the terrace, just the two of them, then repaired to Jean-François’ study at his suggestion: ‘One does not speak of everything in front of the servants, though I have few secrets from them.’ Jack’s suitcase had been taken down to the car by one of the
servants and the big Renault waited now for him. Jack was tired, had seen the dawn come up. He thought that Jean-François looked even worse than he had done at dinner the night before. The morning light showed the deep grooves that pain had carved into his face and heightened its bloodless, yellow tinge.
Jean-François said, ‘You have a saying in England: “No fool like an old fool.” Yes?’ When Jack nodded, he went on, ‘Angélique told you she would persuade me to give you a contract to build a ship. She makes that kind of offer to every man who comes here. Most of them grab it. You did not.’
Jack shoved up in his chair, angry. Last night he had said, ‘Goodnight, madame,’ then walked on to his own room, closed the french doors behind him and jammed them shut with a chair. But how . . .
Jean-François held up a knobby, skeletal hand. ‘I did not spy on you. There was no need because Angélique is transparent. Her bad temper when I looked in on her this morning told its tale. At other times, with other men, she has quietly gloated.’ He shook his head. ‘An old fool. She is beautiful, of course, and I thought she loved me, because she wanted me to think that, but once we were married . . .’ He took a breath and for the first time he smiled. ‘But I must not burden you with my problems. What time is your train? You will be happy to be going home.’
When the Renault carrying Jack drove away Jean-François waved from the terrace.
Chrissie woke at midnight to see a towering figure standing over her. Then Jack shed the last of his clothes and slid in beside her. His arms around her and his body on hers he told her, ‘I got the contract with Jean-François,’ then he closed her mouth with his.
It was a premature celebration.
13
December 1936
‘We’ll have to swim for it!’ Peter shouted as the rollers crashed against the sea-wall and exploded in spray. The spray drove in on the wind across the wide promenade, mixing with the fine rain that was falling, and ran down their faces so they could smell and taste the salt sea.
