Chrissie's Children (13 page)

So he held his tongue and Gallagher said reluctantly, ‘Start in the morning.’ Then he warned, ‘And you’d better work or you’ll be out quicker than you got
in.’

Peter made no answer to that, either, only turned and walked away. As he left the yard he swore to himself, ‘You’ll not get rid o’ me, Gallagher!’ He would work till he
dropped but he would keep this job. If Gallagher tried any dirty tricks he would find Peter Robinson ready. Peter knew he had to keep his secret and watch his back.

Jock Kincaid picked up a wickedly long, sharp knife and rumbled, ‘Sarah! I’ve just been talking to Mrs Ballantyne about you.’ She was stooped over the big
white sink, washing a huge pile of vegetables, fingers busy and deft. He grinned as he saw her smile fade to be replaced by apprehension. ‘Dinnae worry. I’ve not said a bad word, but
get away up to her office as soon as you’ve finished wi’ that lot.’

Sarah went on with her work, partly relieved but still worried, wondering uneasily why Chrissie wanted to see her. She spun the job out now, trying to delay the interview, afraid of what might
be in store for her.

This was a Sunday but Sarah worked on Sundays and had a day off in the week. Chrissie’s presence in the hotel came as no surprise. She often called in for an hour or two to check with
Dinsdale Arkley, her manager, that everything was all right.

Sarah went to Chrissie’s office and found it empty, the door left wide open, and guessed that Mrs Ballantyne had just gone out for a minute. Sarah waited in the doorway and noticed the
model aircraft. It sat on the blotter in the middle of the desk, a flying boat, its silver paint reflecting the sunlight from the window. Sarah was drawn to it, curious. She tiptoed to the desk and
stooped over it.

‘Hello!’ The voice came from behind her and Sarah jerked back, startled, then turned and saw Tom Ballantyne. He had been to church that morning and wore his best dark grey suit. He
said proudly, ‘Looking at my Sikorsky?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘No. I was waiting for Mrs Ballantyne. She wanted to see me.’

‘Oh.’ Tom, abashed, said, ‘Well, I wanted to see her but I can’t find her. Expect she’ll be back soon, though.’

Sarah saw his disappointment and guessed the reason. She asked, ‘What is a Sikorsky?’ though she had guessed that, too.

Tom brightened and stepped past her to lift the flying boat from the desk. ‘This is a Sikorsky S42. It came out in 1934. Four engines—’ and he pointed to them, ranged along the
wings – ‘and a range of three thousand miles. You could fly across the Atlantic in this. Carries thirty-two passengers. Well, not
this
one—’ and he grinned –
‘but a
real
one.’

Sarah reached out a hand, red and roughened by the kitchen work, to run one slim finger along the hull of the aircraft. ‘It’s lovely. It feels smooth as silk. Did you make it?’
She knew he had.

That’s right. It’s sanding it down that gives it that finish. You have to use a very fine sandpaper.’

‘Ah!’ said Chrissie behind them. She entered and walked round them to her chair, seated herself at her desk. ‘There you are, Sarah. Tom – what are you doing
here?’

He said, ‘I came to show you this, now I’ve finished it.’ He held out the model.

Chrissie said briskly, ‘I want to see it, would love to, but I must talk to Sarah first because Mr Kincaid will be missing her. Show it to Dinsdale Arkley and then bring it back to me in
about ten minutes.’

‘Righto,’ said Tom, and called, ‘Cheerio,’ to Sarah as he left the office and closed the door.

Chrissie pointed to the chair in front of her desk and said, ‘Sit down, Sarah.’ When the girl had perched on the edge of the chair, she went on, ‘I’ve been keeping an eye
on you, and I was impressed by the school report you brought in when you first arrived. Also I’ve talked to Mr Kincaid and he speaks well of you. Now, you know Mrs Featherstone?’

Sarah did, a dark and lively, bustling little woman. ‘Yes, Mrs Ballantyne. The housekeeper.’

‘That’s right. She tells me that one of her girls has handed in her notice and will be leaving at the end of next week. I’d like you to take over her job as a chambermaid. The
hours will be a little different but no longer and the money will be better. Would you like to do that?’

Sarah would. ‘Yes, please, Mrs Ballantyne.’

Chrissie smiled at the girl’s relief and obvious delight. ‘All right, then. You’d better get back to Mr Kincaid and let him know your decision. He knew I was going to offer the
job to you and he won’t be annoyed. I’ve talked to Mrs Featherstone, too. She wants you, will have a word with you later and you’ll start with her a week tomorrow.’

Sarah left in a happy haze; she had taken her first step up the ladder, if she never took another. And she couldn’t help thinking how nice Tom Ballantyne was.

Chrissie was content. She had decided Sarah deserved a promotion, and that was only in the short term. In the long term she had grander ideas for the girl because she saw something of herself in
Sarah. She knew she would easily get a replacement for her in the kitchen.

On Monday she did, and also talked with Mrs Featherstone again. The housekeeper welcomed the idea of Sarah joining her: ‘Mr Kincaid thinks the world of her.’

Chrissie laughed. ‘He made that clear.’

That morning there was a letter from Phillip Massingham. Chrissie realised that four months had passed since she put him on the train to London. He said that he was happy in his work, in the
throes of directing a short film, and his wife was on the way back from the USA to join him.

Chrissie hesitated a long time but finally telephoned Randolph Tourville. After passing interrogations by a switchboard operator and then a starch-voiced secretary, she heard his voice, deep and
confident. She told him the news she had received from Phillip.

Tourville answered, ‘Yes, I know he’s doing very well. I’ve heard reports.’

Chrissie thought that he would, took a breath and said, ‘I phoned to tell you and also to say how grateful I am that you gave him this chance to get back on his feet.’

‘Not at all. I hate to see talent going to waste. I prefer to have it working – for me.’

Chrissie could picture his confident grin. Then Tourville’s voice dropped a tone as he went on, ‘You must let me know if you ever come down to London.’

Chrissie could hear his deep chuckle as she said quickly, ‘Goodbye,’ and hung up, her face hot.

An hour later she waved from the platform as the train took Sophie off to London with a dozen other girls. They were bound for a tour of the capital’s sights and museums. Ursula Whittle,
nervous and worried, was in charge of them. Sophie teased her mother: ‘Bet you wish you were coming.’

Chrissie remembered Tourville’s invitation – wondered if it was an invitation – to what? She retorted, embarrassed, ‘Don’t be silly.’

Sophie still smiled at her, but was puzzled as the train pulled away.

As Chrissie crossed the road from the station her gaze rested speculatively on the Wiley building that stood only twenty or thirty yards from the hotel. Wiley’s, an old family firm, had
been a shop selling better-class goods. Its founder, Old Wiley, had grown up in the trade and had thrived at the turn of the century, but his sons had neither his drive nor his ability. They failed
to run the shop profitably and refused to pay a manager who could. They milked it to support their extravagance and finally went bankrupt in 1932. Nobody else had been prepared to take the place on
in those years of crushing depression and Chrissie could understand that. The business would not pay. But it was a fine, spacious, solid building . . .

Next day Matt also left for London with a group of students from the art college who were to visit the galleries in and around the capital. He bade farewell to Chrissie and his family before he
left home, refusing to be accompanied to the station ‘like some kid’.

When he had gone Chrissie assessed the work she had on hand at the hotel and contemplated a week at home without Jack or any of the children. It would be very lonely. She decided to stay at the
hotel until one or more of them came home, and instructed the staff at the house accordingly. She took a few things down to the hotel in a taxi, leaving the Ford in its garage at home as there was
no car park at the hotel. Then she settled at her desk. She told herself she was as happy as she could ever be without Jack, but failed to convince herself. She was miserable without the man she
loved.

When the girls arrived in London, King’s Cross station was clamorous with the tramp of hundreds of hurrying feet and the hissing of a dozen huge steam locomotives. It
smelt of dust and coal smoke. Sophie plucked at Ursula’s sleeve. ‘The taxis are through this way, Miss Whittle.’ She pointed through the arch.

‘Oh, I see,’ answered the flustered teacher. ‘Come on, then.’

Sophie restrained her. ‘We’d better wait for Sheila. She’s looking for her mac.’ When Sheila climbed out of the train with her raincoat Sophie looked over the group and
reported, ‘I
think
we’re all here now.’

Ursula took the hint, counted them and saw all were present. She realised she might have lost one of her charges in a strange city immediately after getting off the train. Sophie murmured,
‘There’s a porter, Miss Whittle. If we give him a shilling he’ll take all our luggage and get us into taxis.’ And he did.

Sophie helped in other ways. Ursula and most of the other girls had never been to London before, while Sophie had, so on their second evening she allowed Sophie to talk her into a visit to a
cinema near their quiet hotel in South Kensington.

The main film was
Broadway Melody of 1936
, with Eleanor Powell, the dancing star. They had to queue, and after they had waited for half an hour a man in a shiny, shabby suit, a muffler
wrapped around his neck, stood in the gutter by the queue and started to sing in a cracked baritone. He wore four medals on a bar pinned to the left breast of his jacket and held out a greasy old
cap. He was a man of forty or so but his shaggy hair was grey at the temples and so was the stubble on his chin.

He did not sing very well, wavering uncertainly on some notes, voice cracking on others. After the first few seconds most of the people in the queue ignored him and went on with reading their
newspapers or talking. Ursula Whittle hesitated, not wanting to push herself forward, but finally left her place in the line to drop a penny in the cap and scurry back again, pink cheeked. The man
broke into his song to say hoarsely, ‘Thank ye,’ then he sang on.

Sophie waited until he had finished then stepped out and said, ‘I’ll have a go and you take the cap round.’

He stared at her and said blankly, ‘What?’ but Sophie gave him a gentle shove on his way and started to sing, ‘It’s Only A Paper Moon’. Her voice rang clear and
true above the noise of the traffic in the street. Talk stopped, heads turned, papers were lowered. Sophie sang for ten minutes, until the crowds streamed out of the cinema and the queue began to
file in.

The man came back to her then with a cap full of pennies. They rattled as his hands shook with excitement. ‘Here y’are, girl. Shall we split it half ’n’ half?’ He
grimaced. ‘Though you earned the most of it to tell the truth.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘No, you keep it. It’s your pitch. And I enjoyed it.’ That was the truth. She was flushed, and as excited as he, but because of performing, not the
money. She tried to be blasé. ‘Better than just standing there, bored stiff.’ Then she ran to join Ursula and the others.

Sarah Tennant was stooped over a huge sink filled with glasses, working one of her evenings at the club. She would be able to save a little money from her pay as a chambermaid
besides what she was paid at the club. She hummed softly, happily, to herself, thinking that one day she would have a place of her own. The door swung open and the steward glared at her then asked,
‘All right, lass?’

‘Aye, thanks.’ Sarah smiled at him. She had come to know him and found that he expected her to do her job but that the glare hid a kind heart.

Now he growled, ‘You’re doing all right. Stick in, lass.’

‘I will.’ Sarah could see past him to the hall outside and saw a youth turn in at the door of the boxing gym. She recognised him because she had often seen him there. Then the
steward backed out and the door closed.

In the gym Peter Robinson stripped to the waist and held out his hands to Joe Nolan. As Joe wrapped the bandages on them and shoved on a pair of gloves, Peter told him, ‘I’ve got a
job. Ballantyne’s have given me a start.’

Joe grinned at him, hearing the pride and excitement in the young man’s voice. ‘That’s grand news. It’s a good firm to work for. Depends on your foreman, mind. Who is
he?’

Peter pulled a face. ‘Gallagher.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Joe tied a lace. ‘You want to watch him.’

‘I know. And I will.’ Peter trotted over to the punchbag and started belting it. He could see Gallagher’s face on the bag, at the receiving end of the punches, but the
training, the hard work and the sweating under Joe Nolan’s constant urging, eased the anger and the hatred out of him. Afterwards he walked home to his bed and slept without a dream.

Peter woke in the night to the clanging of fire bells and saw a red glow in the sky on the southern side of the river where the centre of the town lay.

The hellish, rapid alarm-clock ringing of the hotel fire alarm woke Chrissie. She rolled out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown from a chair and opened her door. The passage
outside was dimly lit throughout the night and she saw other doors opening and guests appearing. There was a strong smell of smoke. She called, ‘Down the stairs and outside, please,
everyone!’ She saw them set out, checked the other rooms on that floor then followed them.

On the ground floor Chrissie found the foyer full of smoke and felt the heat of the fire, though she still could not see any flames. She groped her way through the smoke towards the front doors,
coughing and choking, weeping like the other blundering figures around her. A figure appeared before her and as she reached out a hand to it she saw it was Dinsdale Arkley. He was wrapped in an old
overcoat and shepherding the guests out into the street, assisted by barrel-bodied Walter Gibson, the night porter.