Rose of Tralee (17 page)

‘We’s on Shaw Street,’ shouted a man who had just climbed aboard. ‘Come on, missus, if it’s Shaw you want.’

‘All right, all right, I’m after getting’ off, then,’ the woman said hurriedly, beginning to push through the passengers again. ‘Sorry, chuck, was that your toe?’

‘No, it was me whole bleedin’ foot,’ the trodden-on one, a man in stained overalls sucking an ancient
pipe, said cheerfully, ‘Never mind, queen, there ain’t room in ’ere to tell your arse from your elbow, lerralone a foot from the floor.’ He grinned across at the conductor. ‘If you get all them lot out there on, we’ll sink widout a trace, like the good ole
Titanic
,’

‘She hit an iceberg,’ Rose piped up. ‘Trams don’t hit icebergs much.’

‘Ah, anything’s possible in a fog,’ the conductor said genially, then turned to address his would-be passengers. ‘Only five more inside ... full up on top. Sorry, mate, I’m full up now, I dussen’t tek another soul else I’ll gerra black mark on me time-sheet from the next inspector.’

‘It’s perishin’ hangin’ about in this bleeding’ fog,’ the disappointed passenger wailed as the conductor disengaged his clutching hand frin the pole and blew his whistle for the driver to start. ‘When’s the next one due, friend?’

‘Any minute,’ the conductor bawled cheerfully as the tram drew away. ‘They’ll be queuin’ up down at the Loop any minute now.’

The tram lurched onwards, and Rose saw with some dismay the fog swirling, yellow and thick as phlegm, past the glass. Even the brightly-lit shop windows were no more than a blur and landmarks which were normally a part of every route were impossible to spot. But there is always someone aboard who recognises something.

‘We’re turnin’ into Heyworth,’ a man remarked. ‘I’m gerrin’ off here. Anyone else for Hibbert Street?’

Lily jogged Rose’s arm. ‘Come on, Rose, we might as well get down, it’s handy for the butcher,’ she said rather breathlessly. ‘Follow that feller – he’ll mek a way for us.’

And very soon they found themselves on the
slippery wet pavement, with the street lamps’ glow scarcely visible above their heads. Indeed, Rose found the greengrocer by walking slap-bang into his display of cabbages.

‘I’ll be glad when me shoppin’s done,’ Lily said as he poured potatoes, onions and carrots into three brown paper bags and pushed them into her string shopping carrier. ‘Just Mr Sandon for the stewing meat an’ we can make our way home.’

‘Don’t fog make everything wet!’ Rose grumbled as the two of them, sharing the shopping, headed for home at last. ‘That feller weren’t so far out when he said the tram were like the
Titanic
. At least, I’m as wet as if I’d been paddlin’ off Seaforth Sands.’

‘Clammy more’n wet,’ her mother contributed, walking sturdily along, one arm hung about with shopping bags, the other linked in Rose’s. ‘An’ we hardly talked about the flower shops at all! What did you think? Would you like to work in one, chuck?’

‘I’m not too sure. I don’t know as they’re much different, really, from other shops,’ Rose admitted. ‘But I think mebbe you an’ me dad are right when you say wait an’ see what’s on offer when I’m older. Mam, you know the girl I were talkin’ to in the tram when we first got aboard? She’s a reporter on the
Echo
. She said women can get real interestin’ jobs on newspapers an’ things like that. I’ve always liked writin’ compositions, an’ Sister Therese says I’m good at ’em. Mebbe I wouldn’t mind workin’ for a newspaper. Or ... or a magazine, even. I do love readin’ all the stories an’ articles in me
Girl’s Own
, so I guess I’d like writin’ ’em too.’

‘Oh Rosie, that ’ud be rare good,’ Lily breathed, stopping in her tracks for a moment to stare at her daughter. ‘All them magazines have women editors
an’ col-columnists an’ so on. Oh, your dad an’ me ’ud be so proud!’

‘I’d like you an’ me dad to be proud of me,’ Rose admitted a little sheepishly. ‘I allus knew, Mam, that I couldn’t drive a tram, not really. So we’ll talk about it tonight, shall we? When Dad comes home.’

‘Oh, Rosie,’ Lily said, beaming at her daughter through the thickening fog. ‘Just wait till we tell your dad what you just telled me!’

Thinking about it later that day, Jack decided that he must have been brewing a chill ever since he had left for work, but it didn’t really make itself felt until noon, when he and Georgie were eating their carry-out. Then, because Georgie, shivering, remarked on the cold, Jack realised that far from feeling cold he was hot – extremely hot.

‘Cold, la?’ he said incredulously, mopping his brow with his large white handkerchief. ‘I’m like a turkey half-way through the Christmas cookin’. I’m awright when I’m in me cab, but sittin’ here wi’ you I’m fair on fire.’

‘You do look hot,’ Georgie said after staring at him for a moment. ‘I reckon you’re in for one of them feverish colds, old son. Or mebbe the flu. There’s a lorrof it about.’

‘I never get colds or flu, Lily reckons the fresh air keeps me clear o’ infections,’ Jack said positively. ‘No, I’m just warm, like.’

But by mid-afternoon he knew he was by no means all right. His nose was streaming, as were his eyes, his mouth seemed gummy and unpleasant, and he felt as though someone with a very large drum was beating it just behind his eyes. By the time the fog came down, indeed, he told Georgie he thought he ought to report
sick. ‘Because I ain’t safe, not bein’ able to see for the fog in one way an’ through me flamin’ eyes in another,’ he explained. ‘Besides, the timin’s are all to hell ’cos o’ the fog so they’ll likely prefer us off an hour or so early to us havin’ an accident. Though it go agin the grain to tek time off, when I’ve never done such a thing before,’ he added. ‘I feel as though I’m lettin’ the company down.’

‘Load o’ nonsense,’ Georgie said breezily. ‘Look, we’ll do the run out to the terminus, then I’ll change the boards to “out of service” an’ we’ll head for the depot. You can’t help bein’ ill, old son, so don’t worrit yourself about it.’

Which was how Jack found himself heading for home, on foot, a good deal earlier than he had expected to. As he walked slowly and increasingly unsteadily down the road, he became aware again of how very ill he felt. In fact, what with the fog and his increasing sickness, he scarcely knew whether he was heading for home or not. He decided to catch a tram but couldn’t find a stop, finally realising groggily that he had probably turned a corner without realising it and was on a side road. Pulling himself together momentarily, he forced himself to stand still and listen for several moments, and even through the blanketing fog he heard sounds of people and traffic to his right, so when the opportunity came he turned towards the noise.

Soon he came to another road, upon which he could just about see the gleam of the tramlines, and after walking for what seemed like hours it suddenly occurred to him that far from getting busier and more populated, this road was growing quieter and lonelier as he walked. He must have turned in the wrong direction and be walking away from the city
not towards it.

He wondered about turning round and retracing his steps, but he felt so ill. The fever was doing odd things to his sight, too. Houses wavered as though under water and the pavement undulated beneath his feet, whilst sounds were gradually receding. Even his footsteps were silent now, and he could no longer catch the faint roar of the traffic nor hear the drips and tricklings caused by the fog. Jack leaned against the wall of what he took to be a warehouse and stared around him. This road seemed to have been going on forever, he had been on the same pavement for a long time, or so it appeared. When he came to a corner, or a side road, instead of merely crossing it he would find the street name and orientate himself by it. God knows, being a tram driver teaches you to know your city streets, he thought thankfully. If he knew roughly where he was he could find his way to a tram stop and ask the conductor to put him down as near Cornwall Street as possible.

Accordingly, he walked on, slowly and stumblingly, but with more purpose. At one point he heaved his watch out of his pocket and gazed at its wavering face. It showed five minutes past seven, which was a nasty surprise. He had left the depot getting on for two hours ago and had he been walking in the right direction he would have been home by now. But he dared not turn round and retrace his steps until he had a fix on his present position, so he tucked the watch away, pulled his muffler up to cover his mouth and set off once more.

He found a street sign at last and knew, more or less, where he was. He had indeed been heading in the wrong direction but if he continued on until he came to the next road junction he would be back on a
tram route. Because he would now be heading for the centre instead of away from it, he might not come across a group of people waiting for a tram because most folk were leaving the city at this time of night and heading for their homes in the suburbs, but he would certainly find one of the tram stops. He would stand by it – well, lean against it was likelier – and wait. There was bound to be a tram along soon, because at this time of night, with the huge crowds of would-be passengers, trams were frequent on all routes.

The trouble was, the fog was so thick! Looking upward now, Jack realised that even when standing directly under a lamp-post, all he could see of its light was the faintest of glows. Would he be able to recognise a tram stop sign or would be simply walk straight past it? He pulled out his handkerchief and blew resoundingly upon it and, for a moment, felt better. His head and even his ears cleared, though the faint buzzing that had troubled him for the best part of an hour was still there. And he realised that he should retrace his steps and head towards the city once more. He knew he was on a tram route and in order to get back to Everton he should be on the other side of the road.

Nevertheless, he stood very still for a moment, listening. Yes, that sounded very like a tram approaching right now – thank God! The driver was sounding his bell, the noise bouncing off the terraced houses on either side, which was good, Jack thought approvingly. Clearly, rescue was at hand, and since the sounds seemed to be coming from his right, he should hurry across the road and wave the driver down. If he stood on the very edge of the kerb . . .

He was half-way across the road, peering
anxiously to his right through rheumy and fog-dazzled eyes, when the tram came. It arrived from his left, the driver concentrating on ringing his bell warningly and peering ahead. Jack, realising his mistake at the last minute, tried to hurry, leapt for the kerb, and somehow got entangled in his own feet and his long overcoat. He felt something hard clout him on the shoulder, then the world exploded into a thousand brilliantly-coloured stars, before darkness abruptly descended.

‘He come out de fog, starin’ in a wrong d’rection, but he was off de rails, headin’ for de kerb, an’ I thought no danger,’ the driver wailed, climbing laboriously out of his seat and running towards the still figure half on and half off the pavement. The conductor, carrying a big electric torch, swung it across the silent, greatcoated figure. ‘Oh my Gawd, I would ha’ sworn I din’t touch him!’

‘Nor you did,’ the conductor said comfortingly. ‘I were hangin’ out to see where we was, an’ I seed everything. The poor bugger din’t see us till the last minute – you know how confusin’ fog can be for sounds, I reckon he thought we was comin’ from t’other direction. Now, let’s tek a look . . . Gawd, it’s old Ryder!’

‘Who? I thought it were a uniform coat.’ The driver bent over the man still sprawled across the pavement kerb. ‘Aye, you’re right, its Jack Ryder. Wonder what he were doin’ here, walkin’? He’s a fair way from home – he’s from Everton, ain’t he?’

‘That’s right. Look, ole feller, I’ll go to the house here for help, you stay wi’ him. I don’t know as I’d dare to move him, not wi’out someone as knows a thing or two about first aid. He’s given his head a rare
hard bang, there’s quite a bit o’ blood.’

‘Right you are,’ the driver said. ‘Pity we’ve no one aboard, but ain’t that always the way of it? I’ll put me coat over him an’ all, he feels mortal cold.’ He looked nervously at his conductor. ‘He ain’t ... he ain’t
dead
is he, Claude?

‘Not him,’ the conductor said cheerfully, ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

By eight o’clock the stew was cooked and Lily was extremely worried. She and Rose sat down and ate their own meal, but without much appetite. Jack should have been home an hour ago and although in a fog one could be held up for hours, he had not been on one of the longer routes and should, Lily felt, have made reasonable time. The trams were still running, though the timetables, she realised, would be in tatters. And folk would not be eager to leave their homes on such a night, so Jack should be back soon.

At nine o’clock there was a knock on the door. Lily jumped to her feet but Rose was quicker. She dashed across the hallway and tugged at the solid old front door. Swinging it back, she coughed as the fog surged in and then said uncertainly, ‘Mr Brownlea? Is it you?’

‘Aye, it’s me, chuck,’ the figure on the doorstep said through his scarf. ‘I wondered if your dad would lend me his spirit level. I’m rehangin’ our pantry door an’ I’d like to gerrit straight.’

‘I’m sure he would, but he’s not home yet,’ Rose said. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder, at the kitchen behind her where she knew her mother would be listening, hoping for news. ‘He’s awful late, Mr Brownlea. He should’ve been back a couple of hours ago.’

‘Aye, but fog’s thicker’n pea-soup, it’s more like blind scouse,’ Mr Brownlea said and chuckled at his own joke. ‘Your dad’s probably got purron another route ’cos someone’s gorra dose o’ this flu that’s going around, an’ he’s mekin’ his way back home this very moment.’

‘I dare say you’re right,’ Rose said, very relieved. ‘I’m sorry about the spirit level, Mr Brownlea, but I don’t know rightly where it’s kept. I’ll tell me dad though, an’ I’m sure he’ll fetch it out an’ bring it round as soon as he’s home.’

‘Oh, no hurry tonight, queen,’ Mr Brownlea assured her. ‘Tomorrer will do. Now no more worryin’. Promise?’

Rose was about to reply, mendaciously, that she would not worry any more, when her mother came down the hallway and stood at her shoulder, answering for her. ‘No, Mr Brownlea, we shan’t worry no more, ’cos we’re goin’ to walk down to the depot an’ see what’s happenin’, if he ain’t home in the next thirty minutes,’ she said quietly. ‘I know my Jack, an if everything had been awright an’ he was just goin’ to be late he’d ha’ let us know somehow. You’re right, worryin’s pointless, but action isn’t, an’ action it will be, very soon now.’