by Irene Carr
He blocked a punch from McNally that lacked strength, and replied with a blow below the bigger man’s heart that had him grunting and folding in pain. McNally’s hands lowered and Peter saw his chance. His fist connected with McNally’s jaw and he spun then fell face down in the dirt and mud of the alley. The bellowing of the crowd was stilled.
Peter felt savage satisfaction, the slights and insults of months and years avenged. Then he remembered the money: he would collect ten pounds from Fannon for this fight, a fortune! He sucked in great breaths of air now, filling his chest, and ran a hand with bloody, skinned knuckles across his face, wiping away the sweat, smearing the gore.
And so Sophie saw him, naked to the waist and running with sweat, his body blotched with bruises and stained by the blood fallen from his face and his opponent’s. In that one split second her mind photographed the scene: the circle of sweating faces, the fat man in the tight raincoat, and the narrow-eyed, muscular man by his side, both of them glaring hatred at Peter.
Peter stared at her white face in the crowd, saw the eyes wide and lips parted in shock. Joe Nolan stepped in front of her, grim faced, and spoke to Peter. ‘See us back at the club when you’ve cleaned yourself up.’ Then he turned and pushed his way out of the crowd, herding Tom and Sophie before him.
When they were clear of the press he said brusquely, ‘Well, you’ve seen him. Satisfied?’ He glanced at Sophie. She did not reply but her drawn face was answer enough. She was trying to reconcile the Peter she knew with the fighting machine she had seen this night – and failing. Joe grunted and led her and Tom back to the club.
The crowd left behind them was shifting now, some who had betted on McNally drifting away up the alley, grumbling at the money they had lost. Most of the men now gathered around Fannon to collect their winnings. His face was a sickly green and shone oily with sweat in the light from the lamps hung on the shed wall. He squeaked again and again, ‘You’ll get your money! Just let me pay you one at a time! You’ll get your money!’ Gallagher stood by his side, holding off the more importunate.
Peter took a towel and his shirt and jacket from the man who had acted as his second, and who was now impatient to collect his own winnings and said hurriedly, ‘You fought a great fight, young ‘un.’ Then he elbowed his way into the crowd.
Peter followed him. His heart was still thumping from the battle, his mind still filled with that picture of Sophie’s face, but he wanted his money. That was, after all, the reason he had fought. So he pushed to the front and stood before Fannon, held out his hand. Fannon licked his lips then said, voice hollow with insincerity, ‘Good lad. You earned every penny. Here y’are.’ The crowd went quiet as he dipped into the pocket of his raincoat and drew out the pound notes, counted them into Peter’s outstretched hand: ‘. . . eight, nine, ten.’
Gallagher said nothing but his glare was evil.
Peter crammed the notes into his trousers pocket and eased out of the crowd. As he towelled his face and body then donned his shirt, he saw that McNally had been revived and was now leaning with his back against the wall of a shed under a lamp. Peter did not go to him because this had been no sporting contest. He turned away and walked out of the alley, pulling on his jacket as he went.
Soon afterwards, washed and in a clean shirt, he strode up to the club, never realising that he was hurrying. He found Joe Nolan sitting at a table with Sophie and Tom in the room where women were allowed. One or two sat with their husbands, sipping at glasses of port or stout. Tom had looked around surreptitiously to see if Sarah was there but she was working in the room behind the bar.
Peter joined them, glancing at Sophie, reminding himself that this girl had sent him on his way a year ago. He sat on a stool pulled out from under the table and asked Joe, ‘What did you want to see me about?’
‘I didn’t.’ Joe gestured with a jerk of his head towards Sophie. ‘This lass does. You know how I feel about tonight’s business,’ and with that he stood up, nodded ‘Goodnight’ to Sophie and Tom and walked out.
Peter looked at Tom but spoke to Sophie: ‘Who’s this?’
‘Tom, my brother.’
Peter nodded to him then turned on Sophie. ‘Joe had no call bringing you to the fight.’
‘He didn’t want to. I made him.’
‘Why?’ Then before she could answer he added, ‘It was none of your business. Nothing I do is any of your business.’
Sophie faced his hostility and put a hand on Tom’s arm as he started to rise from his seat. ‘All right, Tom.’ Then to Peter: ‘I wanted to see you urgently because I’m going away for a few weeks. Joe told me you were fighting but I didn’t realise what it would be like. I wish you wouldn’t do it.’ She had been afraid he was hurt, was still afraid for him.
He said, hiding his disappointment behind a poker face, ‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’
‘No. I came to thank you for helping me the other night when that drunk was . . . being a nuisance.’
Peter shrugged. ‘I settled with McNally tonight.’
‘McNally?’ The name nudged a memory and Sophie frowned, thinking back. ‘You told me about him. He works with you, and there was another man . . .’ She paused, trying to remember.
Peter supplied the answer: ‘The foreman, Gallagher.’ He added drily, ‘He was there tonight, the red-faced, slit-eyed feller.’
Now Sophie remembered. ‘Yes, Gallagher. Was he next to a fat man in a raincoat?’ She could recall the scene clearly, every detail, every face, and she shuddered inside.
Peter said, ‘Aye. The fat feller was Josh Fannon. He’s a bookie and he sets up the fights.’
Sophie said, ‘McNally was the drunk the other night.’ Now she was angry. ‘I didn’t want you fighting on my account! I’m grateful for what you did but don’t use me as an excuse.’
‘I didn’t,’ Peter said grimly. ‘McNally wanted it. And we both wanted the money.’
The money. Sophie knew he was poor and would have a need for the money but she could not accept the method he had chosen to obtain it, unless there was no other open to him. But even then . . . She asked Tom, ‘Will you wait outside? I’ll only be a minute or two.’ When he had gone she told Peter, ‘I wish you wouldn’t fight, but it’s none of my business, as you say, because there’s nothing for us. I want to be a singer, up there under the lights and in front of the band. I won’t be tied to anybody.’
Peter said heavily, ‘Aye, I know.’ He stood up with her and watched her walk away. He had hoped through a long year, but nothing had changed. The ten pound notes were still in his pocket but he felt he had won nothing.
Sophie did not sleep well and travelled south on Sunday.
A few days later Tom was thinking guiltily of Sarah, guiltily because of his fondness for Dolly Simmons. He was walking back to his lodgings from his night school in Newcastle and turned into his street, which was dark and deserted at this time of night. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the pavement. He was only a score of yards away from his lodgings when a looming figure stepped out of the doorway of a closed and shuttered shop. Tom moved aside to pass him, then all went black and the next thing he knew he was sprawled in the gutter, his head ringing and jaw aching. The other man stooped over him and asked hoarsely, ‘Know who I am?’
Tom saw he was a stocky young man, broader and heavier and probably a year or two older than himself. Dazed, he mumbled, ‘No.’
‘Fred Dagg. They call me Dagger. You’ve been going out wi’ my lass, Dolly, takin’ her to the pictures. You keep away from her or you’ll get a bloody sight more.’ Then Dagger strode away.
Tom hauled himself to his feet, holding on to the big padlock fastening the wooden shutters of the shop. He clutched it and waited as his head spun, while surprise and shock gave way to anger. That cleared his head and he shoved away from his temporary support, looking for his attacker, but the street was empty and silent once more. Now he could narrow down his pain to two areas: his jaw, where Dagger had hit him, and the back
of his head. He felt gingerly at the latter and found a large lump that was tender to his touch. So that was why he had been laid unconscious for a few seconds: he must have been punched on the jaw then banged the back of his head on falling. He walked on, anger smouldering.
Tom let himself into his lodgings and was met in the hall by Dolly. ‘Hello, Tom. Would you like a cup of tea and a bite of supper?’
He feigned tiredness with a yawn. ‘No, thanks. Think I’ll get an early night.’
‘All right.’ She gave him a weak smile.
There had been an awkwardness between them since Dolly had taken him into her room. It seemed to Tom that Dolly was ill at ease – and he was regretting the affaire but now he said, ‘I’ve just met a chap called Fred Dagg. He said you were his girl.’
Dolly’s face reddened and she shook her head. ‘No, I had – finished with him.’ She turned away quickly, darted into the kitchen and closed the door behind her.
In his room Tom used a hand mirror and that on his dresser to examine the bump on the back of his head. It had stopped bleeding and was hidden from sight by his hair, though it felt the size of an egg. His anger still simmered. Dagger had taken him by surprise but he would not be caught again. Next time he would put Dagger on his back.
It was in that week that George Younger sought out Matt in the garage where he worked. George found him with his head under the open bonnet of a lorry and tapped his shoulder. Matt turned, saw him and pulled his head out. ‘Yes, Mr Younger?’
The garage owner asked, ‘How long have you been with us now?’
‘Four months.’ Matt was apprehensive. Was Younger going to say, ‘Well, you’ve had your chance and you aren’t up to the job’?
However, Younger grinned and said, ‘I didn’t think you’d stick it. I’ve never employed a bloody artist before, but you’ve made out pretty well. I’ve got a place at Darlington that’s short handed now because a man’s gone sick. I want to keep his job open for him because he’s been with me a good long time and he’s a rare worker. I don’t want to take another feller on but I can’t leave them struggling with a man short. Will you go there and work for a few weeks till he’s better? I’ll give you a quid a week towards your digs.’
Matt did not want to go but he was grateful for the job he had and wanted to keep it. ‘Yes, I’ll do it.’
He told Helen Diaz that night as they walked along the sea front. ‘It’ll only be for a few weeks.’
Helen was silent for a moment on hearing of this new blow. She had received mixed tidings that day in the shape of a letter from her father in Spain. He had said that he now appreciated how good a daughter she had been over the years and how badly he had treated her. ‘I am sorry. When this terrible war is over and we return, I will make it up to you.’ She had wept with joy but then began to worry for him and her brother more than ever.
Now she rallied, smiled at Matt and teased him, ‘Why should that make any difference to me?’ Then she laughed as she saw the corners of his mouth turn down. She squeezed his hand. ‘’Course I’ll miss you. And be careful down there.’
Matt grinned. ‘It’s Darlington. They’re not exactly foreigners there.’
‘It’s nearly into Yorkshire. Same thing.’
He laughed at her. They laughed a lot together. He knew he would miss her, but he was happy.
Ballantyne’s yard was closed and silent. The nightwatchman opened the gate to let Chrissie drive the Ford in and told her, ‘Mr Ballantyne is down the yard.’ She parked by the offices and walked down the slope to where the part-built tanker lay on the stocks inside the cage of the staging. She found Jack standing in its shadow, his tall figure almost hidden in the gloom, hands dug deep in his trousers pockets and shoulders hunched. Chrissie slid an arm through his, scenting trouble, and asked, ‘What are you doing down here? Everyone else has gone home.’
He turned to her and she saw his face was drawn. He answered, ‘I had a letter from France. Jean-François is dead. His widow inherited the business and she has cancelled the contract. We won’t get another penny.’
Chrissie bit her lip, shocked into silence for long seconds. Then she asked, ‘But can she do that? Is it legal?’
Jack said wearily, ‘No, it isn’t and she can’t. Her firm is contracted to buy the ship. But it will take months, if not years, to fight it through the courts. We can finish the ship but then we’ll have to sell it. And if we don’t, we go bust.’
Chrissie knew that would mean ruin for him – and for her. He would not only lose his fortune but his heart would be broken. And then there were the others, the hundreds of men who worked in the yard and the families who depended on them. She fought to hold back the tears and blinked up at the shell of the hull above her. It stood black against the night sky like the skeleton of some prehistoric monster.
Jack said bitterly, ‘At least we know how to name her. We can call her the White Elephant.’
19
April 1938
Sophie worked four weeks in Leeds and York, then on the night she finished her contracted shows she received a telegram from Solly Rosenberg: ‘Have got you audition Michael Beaumont . . .‘It went on to give details of time and place, but Sophie was already dancing around the cramped little dressing-room she shared with another girl. Michael Beaumont’s was one of the biggest bands in the North-east, with a national reputation. After a time she stopped laughing and cavorting and cold reality set in. She reminded herself that all she had got was an audition. She had to prove herself good enough to get the job. She wanted it so badly she was sure she would not sleep that night. But she did.
The audition was in a dance hall in Newcastle. She caught an early train from Leeds, deposited her case in the left-luggage office at Newcastle and took a taxi to the hall to be sure she was there on time. She was thirty minutes early and spent most of them pacing around the block. When she rounded the corner on her final circuit she saw Solly Rosenberg waiting on the steps, his car standing at the kerb.
He glanced at the watch on his wrist. ‘Just in time. Michael doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ Sophie had spent almost her last penny on a printed silk suit that showed off her small waist and long legs. Her blonde hair shone and she was flushed with excitement. Solly studied her a moment then shook his head in admiration. ‘You’re a cool one. Any of the other singers I know would have been here half an hour ago.’
Sophie tried to look cool and followed him in. The hall was windowless and empty, a desert of darkened, open floor with black-shadowed corners. The only light illumined the stage at the far end. It was set with music stands and chairs, a drum kit and a piano. A man sat at the keyboard and another stood beside him. Both were in shirtsleeves. They broke off their conversation and turned to watch as Sophie and Solly walked across the desert. Solly said, low voiced, ‘Take no notice of anything the rest of us do, just do your act.’ They halted below the stage and Solly said, ‘Morning, Michael. This is Sophie Nightingale.’
Michael Beaumont was the man standing at the piano, tall and slender, with dark hair greying at the temples. Despite this he looked younger than his fifty years. He reached down to shake Sophie’s hand. ‘Come on up. The band finished rehearsal so I sent them off for a break, but Charlie here will accompany you.’ Charlie was the pianist, short and tubby, bald and grinning. Sophie gave him her music and went to the microphone. Michael Beaumont and Solly Rosenberg now sat in chairs below the stage.
Sophie sang three numbers. At the end of the first of them she saw Michael Beaumont lean towards Solly to speak to him. They talked together, not looking at Sophie, as she sang the other songs. She did not falter, remembering Solly’s instruction: Take no notice . . . ’ but it required an effort of will because she was certain Beaumont had heard enough and she had not got the job. She was right, up to a point. When she finished he turned to face her, stood up and said, ‘Very nice.’
Sophie replied, Thank you,’ and thought that at least he was polite.
He and Solly j
oined her on the stage. Sophie saw her agent was smiling and wondered what that meant. Michael Beaumont said, ‘We’ve agreed you should start next Monday at five pounds a week. Is that all right with you?’
Sophie swallowed. All right? A labourer in the yards was getting only half that amount. She squeaked, ‘Oh, yes.’ Solly winked at her. She floated across the floor as they left.
Outside Solly opened the door of his car and asked, ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’
‘At the station, please.’ Sophie wanted to break the news at home.
Peter Robinson was walking quickly through one of the sheds at Ballantyne’s yard when he heard voices coming from behind a stack of crates. He peered behind the stack and saw a group of half a dozen young men using a crate as a table and absorbed in a game of pontoon for ha’pennies. One looked round and asked, ‘Want a hand, Peter?’
‘No, I’m busy.’ Then he turned as he heard a footfall behind him and found himself face to face with Gallagher, McNally scowling at his shoulder.
Gallagher demanded, ‘What’s going on here?’ He tried to move forward to see into the little hiding place but Peter was in his way. There was scrambling behind him and Gallagher swore, ‘Get outa my bloody way!’ He shoved Peter aside and charged around the corner. The space behind the stack of crates was now deserted. There was no money to be seen but the well-thumbed cards were scattered across the top of the improvised table.
Gallagher swung round on Peter and demanded, ‘Who were they?’ The gamblers were all known to Peter. Some of them were married with young children. Men were being laid off at Ballantyne’s because a buyer had not been found for the ship on the stocks and another contract was not forthcoming. When Peter said nothing Gallagher grinned evilly and said with satisfaction, ‘You’re covering up for them. Right! You’re sacked!’
