by Irene Carr
Peter felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He knew there was nothing he could do. He had seen the gamblers, there was no denying that, and McNally was a witness. Nor could he use his knowledge of their virtual murder of Harry Henderson. It was too late for that. Any such accusation would sound like a charge drummed up out of spite because of his sacking.
He was out of a job again.
The next morning was cold but he left the house early, riding the old bicycle he had bought from the money he had made fighting. Now it would be a source of income. He pedalled out to the colliery tip and the day started well when he managed to grasp the tail of a passing lorry with one hand while steering with the other. It towed him along at a spanking twenty miles an hour, almost to the colliery. When he let go of the lorry his hand was numb and blue with the cold.
The colliery tip was where the shale separated from the coal was dumped. Inevitably some coal, though not much, was left among the shale, and men out of work could comb through with a short coal-rake and ferret out the little black nuggets.
By the late afternoon Peter had filled three sacks. One he slid through the frame of the bike, another he laid across the seat and the third balanced on the handlebars. He started back into the town, pushing the bike and leaning over it to hold all of its precarious load in place. Now he had to find a buyer.
Sophie, wrapped in her warm tweed coat against the cold, had walked out along the sea front for miles, breathing the salt air. She was savouring a few days of relaxation before starting work with the Beaumont band. Or relishing the anticipation, because she was looking forward to the job. A singer with the Beaumont band! She laughed from the sheer joy of it.
She could have caught a tram to take her home but instead diverted to pass by the Ballantyne yard. As she approached the gates she saw the Rolls steal out. Her father was at the wheel, using it this day because the Ford was being serviced. Sophie broke into a light-footed run, waved and shouted, ‘Daddy!’ Jack stopped and rolled down his window. As she came up she called, ‘Can I beg a lift, Daddy?’
He laughed, leaned over and opened the door on the passenger side. Sophie walked around the long bonnet and climbed in. The Rolls moved quietly away, picking up speed.
Peter Robinson watched it go. He was grimy with coaldust that was streaked where little runnels of sweat had trickled down from his hair. He sprawled over his bike, embracing its load. Sophie had run up from behind him, passed within yards, and he had heard every word of her exchange with her father. He had thought she lived and worked at the Ballantyne Hotel. Now he knew differently, and who she was. It took time to sink in, while the Rolls turned a far corner and was lost to his sight. He still stood hunched over the bike. Then, finally, he wiped a hand over his face, smearing sweat and coaldust and heaved the bike forward again.
He could forget her.
At the boxing club that night he hammered away furiously at the bag, venting his anger and hurt. Joe Nolan stood watching with an old friend of his who now said, ‘I like the look of that lad, Joe.’
Joe nodded. ‘Aye, he’s got a lot of talent, a lot of promise. So had you, mind. You were one o’ the best around here.’ Joe’s gaze was still on Peter as he went on, ‘He told me tonight he’s just got the sack. Any chance of you finding him a job? I can tell you he’s a worker.’
The other man rubbed his jaw with a tattooed hand. ‘He’d be better off staying ashore. It’s a dog’s life at sea.’
Tom used his key to let himself in, glancing at his watch as he did so. He was a good half-hour late coming home from the yard because he had stayed to finish a job – not for the first time – and this was the night he usually took Dolly to the cinema. He saw that if he hurried through his tea they would just make the start of the film.
As he stepped into the hall he was confronted by Mrs Simmons, glaring with lips pressed tight. She opened them thinly to order, ‘Mr Simmons wants a word with you, young man. In here.’ She pointed to the parlour. In fact it was Mrs Simmons who did most of the talking. At the end of it Tom, caught unprepared and shaken, asked, ‘Can I talk to Dolly, please?’
‘No!’ Mrs Simmons snapped. ‘You’ll not see her or talk to her till you put a ring on her finger or face her in court.’
Tom rapped back angrily, ‘There’ll be no need for that!’ He stalked out of the house and strode down the street. He had to get out and walk, and try to think.
As he came abreast of the shop, open still at this hour, Dagger stepped out of its doorway, but Tom had seen him in the light from the shop and was not taken by surprise this time. He cocked his fists, hungry for revenge. Dagger did the same, ducking and weaving as he threatened, ‘I warned you about takin’ out my lass. Now you’re goin’ to get it.’
Tom answered, ‘Try if you like. She’s not your girl. I asked her and she said she’d finished with you. And – and we’re going to get married.’
Dagger stood still. ‘I don’t believe you.’ Then on a note of rising rage, ‘You’re a bloody liar!’
‘I’m not. We’re getting married next month.’
Dagger’s hand came down as his anger drained away. He said again, ‘I don’t believe you,’ but it was said without conviction. His shoulders slumped.
Tom said, ‘I don’t care what you think. Now get out of my way,’ and he shoved past Dagger and walked on. He strode around the streets for the rest of the night but only reached one decision. He and Matt had always shared secrets and troubles, so he caught an early workmen’s train to Sunderland and was outside Younger’s garage when Matt, returned from Darlington, turned up for work.
Matt stared at his brother and demanded, ‘What are you doing here?’ Then, taking in Tom’s pale face and dishevelled appearance, Matt said with a brother’s candour, ‘You’re a mess.’ But the comment was tinged with concern. He realised this was not the usual neat and cheerful Tom and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
Tom told him and Matt listened. He was not used to his brother asking for advice – the boot was usually on the other foot – and would have had difficulty giving it now because these were deep and strange waters to him, too. However, Tom made it easy for him, not asking, ‘What should I do?’ but rather, ‘What would you do?’
Matt could answer that: ‘Tell Mother.’
When Tom knocked at the open door of Chrissie’s office she looked up and echoed Matt’s words, surprised: ‘What are you doing here?’
Tom tried to postpone the evil moment. ‘I’ve got the day off.’
Chrissie asked, ‘How? What’s wrong with you?’ People only had days off for sickness or a funeral, and Tom was pallid, with dark circles around his eyes.
‘I’m all right. It’s just that I’ve worked a lot of extra time lately.’
Chrissie was not satisfied. She pushed aside the papers on her desk and declared, ‘There’s something wrong. What is it?’
Tom admitted, ‘Well, yes, I wanted to see you and Dad.’ He took a breath. ‘I’m going to get married.’
‘What!’ Chrissie stared at him for a long moment, stunned. Then she asked, ‘Who do you intend to marry? This is the first I’ve heard of a girl, let alone an engagement or a wedding!’
Tom laboured through his explanation, Chrissie listened, and when he thought he had finished she said, ‘Don’t go and tell your father. But tell me everything now. From the beginning.’
Tom started again, hesitantly, ‘Well, one night we came home from the pictures . . .’ Chrissie coaxed him through it, first with the weariness of having heard it all before, then wondering, and finally suspicious.
She asked, ‘And how many times have you slept with this girl? Once? When?’ Finally Chrissie asked, ‘Do you love her?’
Tom shifted awkwardly. ‘Well, I’m fond of her. And I want to marry her. I want to do the right thing.’
Chrissie sighed, gathered up her papers and put them away in a drawer. She snatched her coat and handbag from the rack and told Dinsdale Arkley, ‘I’m off to Newcastle with Tom.
I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Righto, Mrs Ballantyne.’
Chrissie drove the Ford to Newcastle with Tom by her side and followed his directions to the cake shop. She parked a few yards away, out of sight from the shop, and saw there was a small café just a few yards further on. She got out of the car and walked past the shop and saw two girls serving behind the counter with a middle-aged woman. Then she looked in the window of the café, saw that it stayed open late and returned to her seat. ‘There’s a fair-haired girl and a dark one. Dolly is the fair one?’
‘Yes.’
Then they waited.
When the lights of the shop were lowered Chrissie gripped the handle on the door of the Ford. She said, ‘You stay here,’ and stepped out into the road. The girls came out of the shop, the middle-aged woman following them and switching off the last light.
Chrissie was facing Dolly as the girl turned to walk away, and told her, smiling, ‘It’s Dolly, isn’t it? I’m Tom’s mother.’ She held out her hand and automatically the girl took it. Chrissie held it, saying, ‘I’m just going to have some tea. Come and join me – please? We have a lot to talk about.’ And she led Dolly to the café.
Inside she settled the girl at a corner table and sat down opposite her on one of the scarred wooden chairs, pulling off her gloves. A motherly body wearing a wraparound printed cotton apron and slippers, her hair in a net, bustled up and asked, ‘What would you like? We do a nice pie and peas.’
Chrissie glanced at Dolly then answered with a smile, ‘I think tea for two would be fine.’
‘Right y’are, pet.’ She retired behind the counter, poured dark brown tea from a large urn into two thick cups and added milk from a jug. She set them on the table and pointed to the bowl already there. ‘Help yourself to sugar.’
Chrissie broke the silence she had deliberately allowed to stretch out. ‘Thank you.’ Then as the motherly body disappeared through a bead curtain into a back room she said, ‘Now, you’ve seen your doctor, of course?’ She looked the question and when Dolly nodded, went on, ‘And I’m sure he’s very good, but—’ Chrissie broke off to take her diary from her handbag and open it, poised the pencil. ‘Just to be on the safe side I’ll make an appointment for you with an obstetrician. He’s marvellous, one of the best, and he’ll be able to tell us a lot about the baby and whether there might be any problems, how far along it is and when it’s due. When is it due, by the way?’
Chrissie wrote down the date as Dolly blurted it out, frightened by this threat of an all-knowing specialist. Chrissie stared at the neat figures, pencil tapping on the oilcloth-covered table, letting the silence hang again. Then she looked up at Dolly and said simply, ‘So who is the father? Because it can’t be Tom.’
Dolly’s head was lowered now, looking at the table. Chrissie prompted, ‘Another boyfriend?’ After a moment Dolly nodded. Chrissie reached a hand across the table to lift the girl’s chin and saw her blinking back tears. Chrissie asked softly, ‘Did he deny it? Is that why you said it was Tom?’
Dolly shook her head. ‘He doesn’t know. It wasn’t my idea. My mam said I should get Tom to take me out and I liked him but I was still seeing my proper chap, though Mam had told me to finish with him. She never liked Fred, wouldn’t have him in the house. Then, when I found out I was in trouble, Mam called me all kinds of names like she does and frightened me. She said I should let Tom . . . you know?’ When Chrissie nodded she went on, ‘So I did. He’s a nice lad – it was easy to pretend . . . But I knew it was wrong, I knew I was nothing special to him.’
Chrissie said, ‘I think you were a bit special to him. He was fond of you.’ Then Dolly cried and Chrissie consoled her. She offered to take the girl home. ‘I’m going there to collect Tom’s things.’
Dolly wiped her eyes and refused. ‘I’ll walk around for a bit and wait till my dad gets home from work. He’ll stick up for me.’
So Chrissie drove to Tom’s lodgings, told Mrs Simmons why she had come and the details of her conversation with Dolly. She packed Tom’s belongings into his case and carried them out of the house as Dolly’s mother shed tears of rage and frustration.
In the Ford, driving home through the rain that was falling now, Chrissie said to Tom, ‘You’ll have to live at home until we find some new lodgings for you. That means you’ll have to travel to work every day, but you’ll have to put up with it.’ Then she read him a lesson on the facts of life, beginning, ‘That girl may have offered herself but that was no reason why you should take advantage of her. She might have been in love with you – though she wasn’t – but you certainly were not in love with her . . .’ He got out of the car in a chastened mood. Chrissie put her arm around his neck to pull down his head and kiss him. She said, ‘Just remember.’
On that rainy evening Matthew Ballantyne met Helen Diaz under Mackie’s clock. Their raincoats glistened wetly and Helen wore a kerchief on her head, tied under her chin. She smiled and Matt thought she was very pretty. He ran a hand through his sandy hair, now black with the rain, and told her, ‘Mr Younger wants me to go to Darlington again for a month.’ He had worked there for three weeks until the regular mechanic returned after illness. Now they wanted Matt again because they had more work than they could handle. ‘I don’t want to go but I think I should.’ He was grateful to George Younger for giving him the job that kept him out of the shipyard, but he did not want to spend a day away from Helen, let alone a month.
Helen squeezed his hand but only answered, as if she had not heard, ‘A chap came to see me at the infirmary today. He was with Dad and Juan out in Spain. He couldn’t tell me much because I was at work, but he said he would be in the back room at the Frigate tonight. Come on.’ They ran across the road to catch a tram which took them across the bridge to Monkwearmouth, and then walked down Church Street through the rain to the pub.
There were few people in the sitting-room at the back of the Frigate and Helen said quickly, ‘There he is.’ She led Matt across the room to a little round table. The man sitting there stood up as they approached, and Helen introduced them. ‘Hullo, Dick. This is Matt Ballantyne. Matt, this is Dick Webster.’
Dick was lean and thin faced, burned brown by the sun. He held out his left hand – the right was wrapped in a white bandage. He waved it with a sardonic grin. ‘Souvenir of sunny Spain. It’s good as new but still a bit tender so I don’t want it mangled.’
They all sat down around the table and Matt ordered a round of drinks from the barmaid waiting on in the back room. Then Dick Webster explained how he had gone to fight in Spain with the International Brigade, been wounded and then met Helen’s father and brother. ‘There was a crowd of us wounded being repatriated, waiting in this station for a train. Another one came in filled with a regiment going up the line. Your dad and brother were on it. They looked pretty fit. We got talking because they were just about the only ones on that train who knew any English. When they heard I was coming back to this part of the world for some leave they asked me to look you up.’
Helen asked, ‘They hadn’t been hurt, then?’
Webster shook his head. ‘Not a scratch.’ Then he apologised. ‘Sorry it took me so long to get to you but I was given the job of trying to recruit a few men – sort of paying for my passage home – so I’ve spent the last three weeks travelling about the country talking to anybody who would listen.’ He grimaced. ‘Not with much success though.’
Helen sat back, relieved but still worried, and sipped a little of her lemonade. Matt asked the soldier, ‘Did you say “leave”?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re going back, then?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
Webster had answered the question before and did so now without hesitation. ‘Because I believe Franco should be stopped. Because two other dictators, Hitler and Mussolini, are supporting him and using the war to try out tactics and armaments. Because I think we will be at war with Hitler one of these days.’ Matt
had heard this from his father and refused to accept it but now he sat silent and thoughtful.
Helen didn’t care about politics. She asked, trying to imagine a picture into which she could fit her father and brother, ‘What is it like out there?’
Webster said cautiously, not wanting to upset her, ‘Well, it’s a war. Fighting now and again, some people hurt or killed, but a lot of the time it’s boring and all the time it’s dirty.’
‘What was it like when you were wounded?’
Webster shifted awkwardly, not ready for that question. ‘Not funny. I was hit by shrapnel. That hurt like hell but the worst part was having to wait God knows how long for an ambulance to take me back to a dressing station and another long wait before anybody had time to see to me. They’re very short handed in that line.’
Matt said, mildly curious, ‘I’ve never been to Spain. Is it summer there now?’
Webster grinned and relaxed. ‘No, but it’s warmer . . .’
They talked about the country and its people and culture for some time. It was only when the conversation ran out that Helen suddenly said into the silence, ‘You said you were recruiting.’
‘That’s right,’ and Webster joked, jerking a thumb towards Matt, ‘Is that why you brought him along?’
Helen did not laugh. ‘Will you take me? I’m a nurse.’
The two men stared at her, then Matt exploded, ‘That’s silly!’
Webster countered, ‘No, it isn’t. They could use her.’ He addressed Helen: ‘You should think hard about it, though. It wouldn’t be like a hospital here, it might not be a proper hospital at all. I don’t know what you would be paid or even if you would be—’
Helen broke in then, ‘I want to go. My father and brother are out there.’
Webster pointed out, ‘You probably wouldn’t be anywhere near them, would never see them.’
