Trinidad Street (41 page)

Once they were into the lower reaches, and the houses retreated and marshes opened out at the sides of the river, Harry made some excuses and eased away from the gang. It was a mixed group now, still more young women than young men, but a whole lot jollier than when he had first joined it.

‘Come straight back,’ the girls called out to him.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, but he left them to it.

He went down to the main deck to join the rest of his family. He bought them a round of drinks and made sure his father was not yet the worse for wear, but the togetherness of the married couples and the demands of their small children made him feel excluded. He made his way down to the lower decks and for a while watched the engines working; it was a different world, of steam and oil, shining brass and huge pumping steel pistons. Some of the Trinidad Street boys were there, so he explained to them how coal and water were transformed into the power to push the
Belle
along. They jumped up and down, excited by the sheer raw energy, and admired the engineers crawling unprotected among all that moving machinery with oilcans and rags. He left them running backwards and forwards over the hump above the driving shaft, and went up on deck again. He was leaning over, watching the hypnotic curve of the bow wave forever falling over into the green water when a figure in white joined him at the rail.

‘All alone?’

‘Looks like it.’ He did not look at her.

‘Where have all your admirers gone?’

‘Same place as yours,’ he countered.

She placed a hand on his arm, a white-gloved hand. In spite of himself, he felt a stirring of interest.

‘They’re a bunch of jackasses,’ she said.

Her fingers moved on his arm in a mere suggestion of a caress. To counteract it, he answered more sharply than was necessary.

‘Well, I’m better off than you, then. My friends are a good lot of girls – nice girls, the sort that’d stick by you when you’re in a hole.’

She gave a merry little laugh at that. ‘My, you’re the grumpy one, so
you are. I didn’t think you were the kind to harbour grudges, Harry Turner.’

‘I’m not.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

She threaded her arm through his and leant against him. The body beneath the virginal white was as full and promising as ever. He had to fight against the natural reaction to pull her closer.

‘So we’re still friends?’

That saved him.

‘Wrong.’ He placed her hand back on the rail and put a good foot of clear space between them. ‘We never was friends. Just – lovers. Briefly.’

She was silenced. He stole a quick glance sideways and saw that her mouth was set in a hard line.

‘I take it there never was a baby,’ he said.

‘There was a baby.’ She sounded devoid of emotion. ‘I lost it. Miscarried. You know what a miscarriage is?’

He knew that well enough. His mother had suffered from several, often after his father had knocked her about.

‘Yeah.’

There was a plaintive sniff beside him. ‘It does something to you, losing a child. You’re never the same person again.’ Her voice was thick with unshed tears.

But he did not even have to fight against it. He knew her for what she was.

‘Very convenient for you, losing it just when you thought you might have to leave the stage. Would have been a wrench for you, wouldn’t it, giving up all these – jackasses dying for a word from you.’

‘You’re very cruel.’ It was a near sob this time. ‘You can’t understand how I feel. No man could.’

‘What I can’t understand is why you came on this trip. You must have plenty of young toffs ready to take you out, so long as you hold out the promise to pay them.’

‘What the devil do you mean by that? What are you saying?’ The pose of bereft mother was abandoned. Real anger sparked off her tongue.

Harry ignored her questions, letting the jibe sink in. He carried on with his train of thought.

‘All I can think of is that you want to show off, let everyone get an eyeful of you. You don’t want your family to know you’ve really gone the way of your poor cousin Theresa, do you? So you put on this pretty
dress and these white gloves and you act pure as the driven snow in front of them and all the rest of the street. Well, maybe you’ll fool your family, because they want to be fooled – ’specially your aunt Clodagh. But the rest of us know you for what you are. We may not dress like the people you go around with now, and we don’t talk posh, but we’re not stupid. We know a whore when we see one.’

He left her at the rail and went up to the top deck, where the air was fresher.

The banks of the river grew steadily further apart. Farmland and distant woods and churches replaced the relentless brick. They passed the new docks at Tilbury and the ancient town of Gravesend and now there were fleets of little fishing boats moored in the shallows. On the skyline to the south was the ridge of the North Downs, to the north lay the Essex marshes, bounded by the Langdon Hills. Past the walls of Canvey Island, the estuary opened up. There were real waves, and the steamer lifted just a little to them, as if they were really at sea. The girls squealed in pretended fear and clutched whoever was handy, the men braced their legs and looked sturdy and heroic, the children ran madly about or had to be pulled down off the rails, where they were playing at dares. Hats had to be held in the wind and unguarded newspapers fluttered overboard. A sense of adventure invaded the boat. They were travellers, battling with the elements. They waved to passing shipping as if they too were bound for the other side of the world. People spoke to complete strangers and instant friendships were struck up.

‘There it is!’ cried someone with sharp eyes.

Ahead of them, crouching on the water, a long black line ending in the low dark blob: Southend Pier, the longest in the world. A crowd gathered at the forward rail to watch it get closer. Gradually the blob grew into a definite shape. Decks and buildings could be made out. Colours grew distinct, and now they could see the roofs and windows of the theatre and the tea rooms and the shelters. Flags fluttered from mastheads, there were lines of people sitting in deckchairs along the rails, and over the water came the sound of music. A band! A band was playing! The pier came closer still, and figures could be made out fishing and strolling and playing at deck quoits. And they were an attraction themselves. People were standing watching the
Belle
come in. The Trinidad Street contingent gathered themselves together, collecting up children and bags, straightening hats and scarves. As the boat came alongside they congregated behind a restraining chain, waiting to be let ashore. The warps were thrown and made fast, the
paddles stopped, the gangways set up. A deckhand unfastened the chain and they all surged forward. They were here. They had reached Southend.

THEY FUNNELLED DOWN
the gangway and on to the pierhead, passed the queue of people waiting to get on and the fringe of spectators, and then gathered in small groups to decide just what they were going to do next. Some wanted to stay on the pier and listen to the band, others wanted to head straight for the beach, and a third group were keen to get to the donkey rides and amusements. Numerous children complained of being hungry, and gradually a consensus emerged.

‘Time to eat! Dinner,’ the mums declared. It was well gone twelve, getting on for one.

A couple of families went up to the sundeck and started getting out the sandwiches. Most headed for the trams. They would eat when they got to the shore.

And what a wonderful scene it was when they got there. The smells! The usual town reek of steam, oil and horses was overlaid by a wonderful mix of beer, frying chips, candy floss, cockles and shrimps, and the unique seaweedy whiff of Southend mud. For of course the tide was out. It wouldn’t have been Southend if the water had been in. And there laid out before them were all the pleasures they had ever dreamed of: rows of slot machines, innumerable pubs and teashops and foodstalls, boat trips, donkeys, Punch and Judy, pierrots – and beyond the noise and colour, peaceful gardens and a pretty bandstand . . . something for everyone.

In the cheerful mêlée, nobody from Trinidad Street noticed a tawdry figure standing outside one of the pubs, with a hand poised on her hip and a grubby pink feather boa wafting across shamelessly exposed breasts. But she noticed
them,
and the professionally inviting smile on her face faded into horror. She left her pitch and began to stalk them, always keeping the crowds between herself and them, a silent observer of their carefree fun.

The combined Johnson, Turner and Billingham families, their young people gathered once more under the wing, marched off the pier and spilled immediately on to the grubby shingle of the beach, the
children yelling with delight. It was a difficult operation finding enough room amongst the packed bodies, but they managed it at last, with a few black looks from people already established.

‘Florrie, where’s Florrie?’ the cry went up.

She was discovered picking her way towards them, pink to the ears with suppressed joy.

‘Meeting him later, are you?’ Harry asked.

Florrie nodded, speechless, and dived into the anonymity of the family group.

Where was Siobhan? That was more to the point, Will thought. He had been well and truly tied down during the boat trip, with the added frustration of seeing her approach Harry and get the brush-off. He could not fathom Harry. If he were as free as Harry was, he would not be treating her like that. But he was stuck with the whole family, and it was getting him down. It was bad enough having Maisie and his own five children around. To have all Maisie’s lot, and his family, and the Billinghams as well, was just too much. He sat munching squashed jam sandwiches, glaring resentfully at all the people enjoying themselves, especially men his own age who were unencumbered by kids and sported striped jackets and boaters and moustaches, free to eye up the girls and have a good time. He looked down at his own clothes. He had quite fancied himself this morning, before setting off. But now he realized that the trousers were bagging at the knees, that the jacket was too long in the arms and far too dark for a jolly day out at the seaside, that his boots were workman’s boots, however well mended and polished. He had no chance at all, compared with those others. By his feet, Lily dropped her sandwich and wailed, Peter laughed at her and Tommy hit him, so Peter hit him back and pushed into Albert, who also dropped his sandwich and attacked both of them, screaming. Will cuffed all three boys round the ears and bellowed at them to shut up or else. They obeyed, but looked at him sulkily, lower lips stuck out.

A couple of yards away, Charlie Billingham was lounging back on one elbow as he ate. Will suddenly saw a way out. Charlie was not going to stick around with the women and children all afternoon. Neither was Harry or young Jack, for that matter, but he did not want them along. When the party started breaking up after the food was gone, he would tag along with Charlie.

‘Oi, mate,’ he said, calling behind the backs of the womenfolk. ‘You going off along the front later?’

‘Yeah, might. Why?’

‘Thought I’d come along of you.’

Charlie did not look overpleased. ‘Suit y’self,’ he said.

It was good enough for Will.

The last thing Charlie wanted was someone tagging along with him, but it was convenient for him to have Will at his side while he got away. When the sandwiches were eaten and the teatrays taken back to the café, he chose a moment when everyone else was busy sorting themselves out to beckon Will with a jerk of the head.

‘You coming, then?’

Will scrambled to his feet and they made their way up the beach, threading their way between the deckchairs and children and up on to the promenade. Here Charlie paused a moment, taking it in.

Will dug him with his elbow and nodded in the direction of a group of pretty girls.

‘Get an eyeful of that. Nice, eh?’

‘Yeah.’

But Charlie was not looking at them. It was the sight of all these people with spare cash in their pockets that held his imagination. Every single person had spending money about them, and none of them was looking after it. The thought of it filled him with an excitement that chasing girls had never given him. His acquisitive greed was too deep to be denied.

‘Come on,’ he said, plunging into the crowd.

His eyes flicked this way and that. Ahead of him was a bulging pocket with the corner of a leather wallet peeping over the top. Easy, so easy. But he was all too aware of Will at his shoulder and breathing down his neck. He spotted a row of machines lined up by a candy-floss stall.

‘What the Butler Saw,’
he said. ‘Fancy a look?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ Will grinned.

They both put pennies in and peered into the eyeshields as they turned the handles. Charlie waited till he heard a chuckle coming from Will, and then a whistle. Silently he slid away.

It was a wonder he did not feel the waves of hatred emanating from the woman watching him from round the corner of the stall. So venomous was the expression on her face that it made a small icy hole in the jolly heat of the day, casting a chill on anyone who caught sight of it.

Back on the beach, all Will and Maisie’s children, and Bob Turner, were paddling in puddles in the mud. The young people had gone off in a group, together with Jimmy Croft, who had Florrie’s arm through
his. Archie had disappeared in the direction of the nearest pub and Milly was peacefully dozing in her deckchair, mouth open and hat askew.

Ellen sat with Jessica lying across her lap. She had just fed and changed her, and the baby was gurgling happily, playing with her fingers and toes.

‘Ah, the lamb,’ Martha cooed. ‘You give her to me, lovey. She’ll be quite happy. You two go off and enjoy yourselves. Go on. No need to sit around with us old ’uns all afternoon.’

‘That’s real kind of you, Mum,’ Gerry said, before Ellen could object. He held out his hands and pulled her up. ‘Come on, we’ll see the sights. How about the pierrots? You ever seen them?’

Ellen found herself escorted off the beach.