by Irene Carr
She moved to pass him but Matt caught her arm. ‘Just a sec. What about coming out with me?’
‘What?’ Helen was not ready for that much change in him. She drew back in surprise, but not far because he held her.
Matt said, ‘I’ll meet you outside here. When?’
‘You will not! They don’t like men hanging around outside waiting for nurses.’ She did not want her colleagues watching her from the windows.
He pressed, ‘Where, then?’
‘Excuse me, but are you the chap who brought in the boy just now, the one that was in the lorry that crashed?’
Matt turned his head to see the man who had burst into the casualty ward. ‘I brought him in, yes,’ and turning back to Helen: ‘Where?’
‘Where?’ she repeated, head whirling now, trying to think. Then a rendezvous familiar in the town popped into her mind: ‘Mackie’s clock.’
‘Am I interrupting?’ The man looked from one to the other.
Helen said quickly, ‘Oh, no.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you.’ Then to Matt, ‘I’m George Younger, the boy’s father.’
Matt turned again and saw Younger holding out his hand. Matt took it in his bandaged paw but still held on to Helen with the other hand. He winced as the man squeezed. ‘Matt Ballantyne.’ Then to Helen, ‘When?’
‘Sorry!’ Younger released Matt’s hand. ‘That must be painful.’ Then he added, ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘That’s all right. I’m glad I could help.’ Matt wished he would go away, and demanded of Helen again, ‘When? Tonight? About six?’
‘No! Tomorrow night.’ The postponement was for no reason but to give her time. She saw another figure at the end of the corridor. Was it Sister? ‘Six o’clock, then.’ She finally pulled free and hastened off down the corridor away from the approaching figure.
Matt watched her go, with regret but elation. Then he found he was still half-turned to Younger and apparently listening courteously to the man’s speech of gratitude, though Matt realised with guilt that he did not remember a word. Younger was saying, ‘. . . so if ever I can do anything for you, son, just say the word.’ He paused then, waiting.
Matt’s memory stirred as it had earlier, but this time it made the connection. George Younger? There was a chain of garages called Younger’s. He said hesitantly, ‘I need a job. So if you were wanting anybody . . .’ He tailed off into embarrassed silence.
Younger thought, You and thousands more, lad. But he asked, ‘What are you doing now, signing on?’
‘I’m at the art college.’
Younger sighed within. ‘So you’ll be wanting a clerical job.’
‘No. More mechanical. I know a bit about cars, I’ve worked on them.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Younger had heard that one before, many a time, and it had turned out the fellers couldn’t change a wheel. As it happened, though, he needed another man to replace an old employee who was just about to retire. ‘I can use an odd-job man to do a bit of sweeping up and cleaning, a few simple jobs on the cars, learn from the mechanics as you go along and move up a bit. What do you think?’
Matt grabbed the offer. ‘I’ll take it.’
Younger said, ‘Start tomorrow at my garage on the Durham Road.’ He began to turn away but now a name jolted his memory in turn. He said, ‘Ballantyne? Any relation to the shipbuilders?’
Matt admitted, ‘Jack Ballantyne is my father.’
That startled Younger, though he kept his face blank. He wondered, Why the hell does Jack Ballantyne’s son want to work as an odd-job man? But he shrugged mentally, deciding it was none of his business. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
That evening Jack Ballantyne said, ‘This sounds to me as if you are still drifting. I think this is just a way of getting out of starting at the yard.’
Matt admitted that to himself. He had no intention of working in a garage for the rest of his life, but he said stubbornly, ‘I’ll be working.’
Chrissie pleaded for him, ‘At least he’ll be gaining experience of some sort and keeping himself while he makes up his mind.’ She still had faith that Matt would succeed – somehow – though she was not able to produce any evidence to support that faith.
George Younger had called on Chrissie and Jack and told them how Matt had saved his son, so Jack set his doubts aside and grinned at his son with pride. ‘I wish you the best of luck with it, then.’
Chrissie sighed with relief.
So did Matt, because he had been uncertain whether his father might somehow have stopped him from taking up the job.
He was jubilant when he met Helen the following evening. ‘I’ve got a job!’ he said, and went on to tell her about it.
‘I thought you were at art school.’
‘I was, but I just wasn’t good enough. Oh, I can draw a bit, and I like it, but spend my life at it?’ He shook his head. ‘I was just wasting other people’s time. I didn’t want to go on doing that. Would you work at something you didn’t like?’
Helen had been listening, disapproving. ‘Lots of people have to.’
‘I know they do, but would you want to?’
Helen hesitated, then admitted, ‘No,’ because she was on the way to attaining her ambition, to become a nurse. That was not completely true, though: nursing was to some extent a compromise, because she had really wanted to become a doctor. She knew that was a dream impossible of fulfilment for she had neither the brains nor the money to go to medical school, and its impossibility meant she had told no one. However, she sympathised with Matt’s point of view now. She did not consider that she might be becoming biased.
Matt invited her to the cinema and she refused. They walked instead, out along the sea front.
Helen was not allowed to wear uniform outside the hospital. Her dress was an old one, but the tweed swagger coat with a pleated back that she wore over it was new and had cost her twenty-five shillings, most of her savings. Matt did not notice it, but Helen, on the other hand, saw that he needed a haircut, his grey flannel trousers bore a smudge of engine oil and his sports coat – borrowed illegally from Jack’s wardrobe – was loose on him. He was so tall and ungainly and she couldn’t help smiling at him. They talked a lot, and though neither could remember much of it next day, they thought it a memorable evening all the same.
Matt said as they parted, ‘When will I see you again?’
Helen replied, ‘I’ll think about it and let you know,’ and he had to be content with that.
He put his head around the door of the sitting-room when he got home and his mother looked up from the book she was reading to greet him with a smile. ‘Hello, Matt. What have you been up to?’
‘I went for a walk.’ Then he added casually, ‘I met Helen Diaz – Sophie’s friend, remember?’ He went on to tell her how Helen had been deserted by her father and was now a student nurse living in the nurses’ home.
Chrissie was not deceived by that casual pose, and she remembered the girl very well.
A day or two later Chrissie called in at the hospital and sought out Helen to tell her, ‘Think of our home as yours. Come and stay whenever you like. We’d love to see you.’ She left before Helen burst into tears – and drove home wondering what her own daughter, Sophie, was doing.
16
November 1937
Now they were into another winter. The clouds hung heavy and dark above Newcastle and although it was close to noon there were lights burning in many of the houses. Sophie trudged miserably, head down into the rain, carrying a heavy shopping basket. It drove almost horizontally along the street, borne on the wind coming off the Tyne and smelling of smoke and the sea. The umbrella she held before her face kept off some of the rain but blew inside out every few seconds. When she shoved open the front door and stumbled into the passage she was dripping as if she had crawled out of the river itself, her blonde hair hanging darkened and damp against her neck. She swore under her breath and shook the worst of the rain off the umbrella, holding it outside
the door. Then she closed both umbrella and door, wiped her feet and walked along the passage. As she mounted the stairs she was conscious of the moist eyes of the fat landlady watching her from the door of her kitchen at the back of the house. Sophie mouthed silently, ‘Nosey old witch.’
Once inside the sitting-room she put the shopping basket on the table, hung up her coat on a nail in the back of the door and stood before the small fire drying the hem of her dress. But not for long. Hunger sent her to take a loaf of bread from the basket and cut it into slices. Then she toasted it on a fork before the glowing coals. The food in the basket would be the first she had eaten that day.
The door of the bedroom next door opened and Martha Tate stepped out on to the landing, blinked around then wandered into the sitting-room to stand over Sophie. She clutched a garish, imitation silk robe about her. ‘Hello, pet. Making a bit o’ breakfast?’
Sophie replied shortly, ‘Lunch.’ She had missed breakfast because there had been no food in the house when she woke. That was a regular occurrence.
‘I’ll have a cup o’ tea and a slice with you.’ Martha sank into an armchair and slid off her slippers, stretched her toes out to the coals and yawned. ‘Then I think I’ll go back to bed for another hour or two.’
She had been in bed when Sophie returned at midnight. Sophie had a job singing with a band now and last night’s dance across the Tyne in Gateshead had not finished till close on eleven, just in time for the patrons to catch the last buses and trams. She had stolen up the stairs carrying her shoes because their landlady complained about any noise at night. The door of the bedroom had been closed but Sophie had heard the mutter of voices, one of them hoarse and male. She had heard him leave as she lay on her own bed on the couch in the sitting-room. That, too, was a regular occurrence.
‘You have this one.’ Sophie unpacked the carrier bag to get at the butter, spread it on the slice of toast and gave it to Martha on a plate. Then she made a pot of tea.
‘I’ll go out and get some grub later on,’ Martha promised and crunched toast. ‘I’ve got some money next door.’ Sophie knew where it came from – and guessed where it would go. She glanced at the table in one corner and saw the bottles standing on it were all empty.
Martha drank tea thirstily, licked her lips, then her eyes slid round to the corner table and she saw the empty bottles. ‘Well, I think I’ll get dressed and go out now.’ She rose to her feet, clutching the robe with one hand and pushing at her tangled hair with the other. Sophie wondered what the men would think if they could see her now, her lined face bare of make-up. On the stage she looked half her age, but that was in truth – what? Chrissie knew her own mother, Martha’s daughter, was forty-three. So Martha was . . .
Martha asked, ‘How’s your job with Bobby going?’
‘Fine,’ Sophie lied.
Martha leered, ‘You be careful. Some o’ these fellers . . . ’ She winked a bloodshot eye. ‘If he puts his hand on your leg, you tell him where he gets off.’
‘I will.’
That night he did – and she did, then smacked his face into the bargain. ‘You’re sacked!’ he shouted at her, holding a hand to his jaw.
She snapped back at him, ‘I’m resigning!’ and walked out of the dressing-room. Then she wondered, What now? She had given up the job at Woolworth’s when she went to sing with the Bobby Delville band. She had saved only a pound or two because Martha frequently borrowed money and only infrequently paid it back. Sophie knew she had to get another job because her grandmother could not – would not – support her, and that would not be easy.
She walked back to her lodgings to save the fare. The rain had stopped but a bitterly cold wind roared up the Tyne from the sea and cut through her clothes as she fought her way against it, crossing the bridge to Newcastle.
On a fine morning a few days later, the receptionist at the Ballantyne Hotel telephoned Chrissie in her office. ‘There’s a gentleman called to see you. Mr Rosenberg. He says he doesn’t have an appointment but he’d be grateful if you could spare him a minute. He’s come from Newcastle.’
Chrissie wondered if it was a commercial traveller wanting to sell her something for the hotel. She said, ‘I have a minute or two so send him along. But first ask the kitchen to send up coffee for two, please.’
He turned out to be a good ten years older than herself but a darkly handsome, dapper man in a well-cut, well-pressed suit and polished shoes. His smile was wide and his handshake firm. ‘Solly Rosenberg.’
‘Sit down, please.’ Chrissie gestured to the chair before her desk and offered, ‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you,’ he said then he got down to business without wasting time, and Chrissie warmed to him. ‘I’m a theatrical agent, Mrs Ballantyne. I act for Vesta Nightingale, and some few weeks ago she asked me if I could find work for her granddaughter, Sophie Nightingale.’ He broke off there as he saw Chrissie stiffen behind the desk and freeze in the action of handing him a cup of coffee. ‘I understand she is your daughter.’
Chrissie said tautly, ‘She is.’
Solly nodded and took the cup from her. ‘Thank you. Well, I fixed her up with a job, singing with Bobby Delville’s band – not easy because she had very little experience to offer, but I did it. That seemed fine, up to a point.’
He stopped to sip coffee then went on, ‘You understand, as far as I knew the band was respectable and so were the venues. I had some reservations about other aspects of your daughter’s life but I’ll get round to them later. Now, a couple of days ago she came to see me and said she’d walked out on the job with Bobby Delville. She wouldn’t go into details but I suspect he misbehaved himself. She asked me to find her another job. I think I could do that because she was a success with Bobby. He phoned me to say he was sorry and could I persuade her to go back. I told him I wouldn’t.’ When Solly stopped this time he looked ill at ease.
Chrissie prompted, ‘So . . .?’
He went on unhappily, ‘I said I was not happy about other aspects of your daughter’s life. Well, I’m talking about Vesta Nightingale. I know the lady is your mother, but frankly, I think Sophie would be better off out of her influence. I’ve acted for Vesta Nightingale for more years than I care to remember. She was a real talent. But in her private life . . . ’ He shook his head.
Chrissie said, ‘I understand. I’ll go and see Sophie.’ She was silent for a full minute, thinking. Solly waited for her, and was beginning to worry at that long-drawn-out silence. Then she broke it to say, ‘I wonder if you would help me?’
‘If I can,’ he promised quickly.
It was a half-hour and several telephone calls later when a relieved Solly Rosenberg stood up. Chrissie rose, too, saying, ‘And thank you for taking the trouble to come and tell me.’
He smiled at her. ‘I like the girl. And she, too, has a real talent. I would hate to see that wasted like—’ He checked himself there and held out his hand, then gave Chrissie one more useful item of information before he left: ‘Vesta is performing at a club tonight and she will be out of their lodgings from about seven until well after ten.’
So Chrissie met her daughter on the landing that evening and Sophie greeted her with the words, ‘Grandma is out. She won’t be back till late.’
‘I know. I came to see you.’ Chrissie kept her smile in place though she saw that Sophie was thinner and there were shadows under the girl’s eyes. She followed her daughter into the sitting-room and sat down in one of the lumpy armchairs. Sophie sat opposite, stared at her defiantly and waited. Chrissie said, ‘I came to make you an offer.’
Suspicion was now added to defiance as Sophie asked, ‘What sort of an offer?’
‘Why don’t you come home to live, find some work around Sunderland, and study for a trade during the day?’
‘You mean I could sing in the evenings? Be a professional singer in the evenings?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But you don’t want me to be a singer.’
‘True
, but this way you wouldn’t be wasting all your time.’ Chrissie leaned forward. ‘Look, Sophie, you might make a success of being a – a theatrical, but a lot of people try and fail. If you have an alternative skill you can still earn a living and get some satisfaction out of it. I think that is the best way forward for you,’ she said with sincerity.
Sophie wavered, but questioned, ‘What made you change your mind? You didn’t want me to be a singer at all, any time, anywhere.’
‘I haven’t changed my mind, but I miss you.’ That came from the heart. ‘Come home, Sophie.’ Chrissie waited as Sophie looked around the room. Sophie recalled how eagerly she had come here and the picture she had nurtured of her grandmother, then of the weeks between, the drinking and the borrowing, lying sleepless on the couch and hearing the men in the room next door.
Sophie left a note for Martha Tate, thanking her for her help but saying that she was going home to work locally in Sunderland.
Seated in the Ford she told Chrissie, Tm going to be a singer. Don’t think I’m giving up. And I’ll tell you now, my agent has already fixed me up with some dates in Sunderland and round about. He came to tell me just an hour or so ago.’
Chrissie said happily, ‘That’s a bit of luck. I’m pleased for you.’ Solly Rosenberg had arranged those dates earlier in Chrissie’s office, using her telephone. ‘Sing, then.’
Sophie sang all the way home, where Jack Ballantyne wrapped his arms around both of them.
So Chrissie had all her family at home for Christmas and they saw in the New Year of 1938 together.
Two weeks later Tom Ballantyne smiled shyly around the table at his lodgings. ‘Thank you very much for the tea, Mrs Simmons. It was kind of you to remember my birthday.’
Violet Simmons simpered and flapped a hand in denial. ‘Why no! You’re welcome. You’re just like one of the family now. Isn’t he, Dennis?’
Her husband dutifully agreed. ‘Aye. That’s right, Mr Ballantyne.’
‘Call me Tom.’ He had asked them to before, but they persisted in giving him his full title, except, that is, for Dolly. She addressed him as Tom.
