Chrissie's Children (25 page)

She walked back to her lodgings to save the fare. The rain had stopped but a bitterly cold wind roared up the Tyne from the sea and cut through her clothes as she fought her way against it,
crossing the bridge to Newcastle.

On a fine morning a few days later, the receptionist at the Ballantyne Hotel telephoned Chrissie in her office. ‘There’s a gentleman called to see you. Mr
Rosenberg. He says he doesn’t have an appointment but he’d be grateful if you could spare him a minute. He’s come from Newcastle.’

Chrissie wondered if it was a commercial traveller wanting to sell her something for the hotel. She said, ‘I have a minute or two so send him along. But first ask the kitchen to send up
coffee for two, please.’

He turned out to be a good ten years older than herself but a darkly handsome, dapper man in a well-cut, well-pressed suit and polished shoes. His smile was wide and his handshake firm.
‘Solly Rosenberg.’

‘Sit down, please.’ Chrissie gestured to the chair before her desk and offered, ‘Coffee?’

‘Thank you,’ he said then he got down to business without wasting time, and Chrissie warmed to him. ‘I’m a theatrical agent, Mrs Ballantyne. I act for Vesta Nightingale,
and some few weeks ago she asked me if I could find work for her granddaughter, Sophie Nightingale.’ He broke off there as he saw Chrissie stiffen behind the desk and freeze in the action of
handing him a cup of coffee. ‘I understand she is your daughter.’

Chrissie said tautly, ‘She is.’

Solly nodded and took the cup from her. ‘Thank you. Well, I fixed her up with a job, singing with Bobby Delville’s band – not easy because she had very little experience to
offer, but I did it. That seemed fine, up to a point.’

He stopped to sip coffee then went on, ‘You understand, as far as I knew the band was respectable and so were the venues. I had some reservations about other aspects of your
daughter’s life but I’ll get round to them later. Now, a couple of days ago she came to see me and said she’d walked out on the job with Bobby Delville. She wouldn’t go into
details but I suspect he misbehaved himself. She asked me to find her another job. I think I could do that because she was a success with Bobby.
He
phoned me to say he was sorry and could I
persuade her to go back. I told him I wouldn’t.’ When Solly stopped this time he looked ill at ease.

Chrissie prompted, ‘So . . .?’

He went on unhappily, ‘I said I was not happy about other aspects of your daughter’s life. Well, I’m talking about Vesta Nightingale. I know the lady is your mother, but
frankly, I think Sophie would be better off out of her influence. I’ve acted for Vesta Nightingale for more years than I care to remember. She was a real talent. But in her private life . . .
’ He shook his head.

Chrissie said, ‘I understand. I’ll go and see Sophie.’ She was silent for a full minute, thinking. Solly waited for her, and was beginning to worry at that long-drawn-out
silence. Then she broke it to say, ‘I wonder if you would help me?’

‘If I can,’ he promised quickly.

It was a half-hour and several telephone calls later when a relieved Solly Rosenberg stood up. Chrissie rose, too, saying, ‘And thank you for taking the trouble to come and tell
me.’

He smiled at her. ‘I like the girl. And she, too, has a real talent. I would hate to see that wasted like—’ He checked himself there and held out his hand, then gave Chrissie
one more useful item of information before he left: ‘Vesta is performing at a club tonight and she will be out of their lodgings from about seven until well after ten.’

So Chrissie met her daughter on the landing that evening and Sophie greeted her with the words, ‘Grandma is out. She won’t be back till late.’

‘I know. I came to see you.’ Chrissie kept her smile in place though she saw that Sophie was thinner and there were shadows under the girl’s eyes. She followed her daughter
into the sitting-room and sat down in one of the lumpy armchairs. Sophie sat opposite, stared at her defiantly and waited. Chrissie said, ‘I came to make you an offer.’

Suspicion was now added to defiance as Sophie asked, ‘What sort of an offer?’

‘Why don’t you come home to live, find some work around Sunderland, and study for a trade during the day?’

‘You mean I could sing in the evenings? Be a professional singer in the evenings?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But you don’t want me to be a singer.’

‘True, but this way you wouldn’t be wasting
all
your time.’ Chrissie leaned forward. ‘Look, Sophie, you might make a success of being a – a theatrical, but a
lot of people try and fail. If you have an alternative skill you can still earn a living and get some satisfaction out of it. I think that is the best way forward for you,’ she said with
sincerity.

Sophie wavered, but questioned, ‘What made you change your mind? You didn’t want me to be a singer at all, any time, anywhere.’

‘I haven’t changed my mind, but I miss you.’ That came from the heart. ‘Come home, Sophie.’ Chrissie waited as Sophie looked around the room. Sophie recalled how
eagerly she had come here and the picture she had nurtured of her grandmother, then of the weeks between, the drinking and the borrowing, lying sleepless on the couch and hearing the men in the
room next door.

Sophie left a note for Martha Tate, thanking her for her help but saying that she was going home to work locally in Sunderland.

Seated in the Ford she told Chrissie, Tm going to be a singer. Don’t think I’m giving up. And I’ll tell you now, my agent has already fixed me up with some dates in Sunderland
and round about. He came to tell me just an hour or so ago.’

Chrissie said happily, ‘That’s a bit of luck. I’m pleased for you.’ Solly Rosenberg had arranged those dates earlier in Chrissie’s office, using her telephone.
‘Sing, then.’

Sophie sang all the way home, where Jack Ballantyne wrapped his arms around both of them.

So Chrissie had all her family at home for Christmas and they saw in the New Year of 1938 together.

Two weeks later Tom Ballantyne smiled shyly around the table at his lodgings. ‘Thank you very much for the tea, Mrs Simmons. It was kind of you to remember my
birthday.’

Violet Simmons simpered and flapped a hand in denial. ‘Why no! You’re welcome. You’re just like one of the family now. Isn’t he, Dennis?’

Her husband dutifully agreed. ‘Aye. That’s right, Mr Ballantyne.’

‘Call me Tom.’ He had asked them to before, but they persisted in giving him his full title, except, that is, for Dolly. She addressed him as Tom.

He was well pleased with his new lodgings. The food was good and generous, his room was comfortable and he was treated as an honoured guest. Now they had given him a special high tea to mark his
birthday and cards to add to those he had received from home. Also he had been given a pay rise at his work in the yard because of the anniversary. He was happy.

Now Violet Simmons stood up and ordered, ‘Help me to clear away the tea things, Dennis. And you two young ones, why don’t you go out to the pictures as it’s Tom’s
birthday? Here . . .’ She rummaged in a drawer for her purse and took out a florin she had put there for the purpose. ‘My treat.’ She pressed it into Tom’s hand, ignored his
laughing protests and herded him and Dolly towards the door.

At the cinema Dolly found them a seat at the back and they sat close together in the warm darkness.

February 1938

The ship was launched in Ballantyne’s yard on a blustery afternoon in March, the wind setting the lines of bunting dancing. The bottle of champagne shattered on the bow
of the ship and the crowd of invited spectators and workers gathered around burst into a roar of cheering. The ship began to move slowly down the slipway. It gathered momentum, and as its near ten
thousand tons rammed into the river, it displaced a huge wave which rolled away from the ship to break over the sides of the quays on both sides of the Wear. The banks of the river were also
crowded with spectators who had applauded the launching, and now they shrieked and laughed, and ran from the wave that washed on to the quay towards them, threatening to fill their boots.

Chrissie stood by Jack on the flag-draped platform with the privileged guests. She clutched her bouquet and cheered with the rest. The ship had been launched by Madame Benoit, whose husband was
Jean-François’ manager. The shipowner was not well enough to attend the launching and had sent the Benoits instead.

Chrissie had asked, ‘Why didn’t he ask his wife to do it?’ and Jack had recounted what he knew of Jean–François’ marriage. Chrissie had bitten her lip,
shrewdly guessing the temptation offered to Jack, and had kissed him. She wanted to kiss him now but knew she had to show more decorum as the wife of Mr Ballantyne.

She and Jack had entertained the Benoits, Monsieur Benoit lean and courteous, Madame plump and chic, and were sending them home bearing good wishes to Jean-François. He had ordered
another tanker from the yard and Chrissie was happier than she had been for a long time.

Sophie swallowed her nervousness again and again but it always returned. Her mouth was dry. She was used to all these symptoms now and knew she would perform when the time
came, but that did not help much in this waiting period. She wore a new dress that had cost her fifteen shillings and clung to the curves of her slender body. She knew she looked attractive and had
seen the admiring glances turned her way, but reminded herself there were others in the contest, too.

The talent contest was being held in a big public house in the middle of the town. The venue was the lounge bar, long and narrow with a small stage at one end, just big enough for the pianist
and a performer. The floor of the lounge was packed with small tables set close together. The chairs crowded about them were all occupied. There were some three hundred people or more in the
audience. At a table near the entrance sat three men. Their glances were not admiring. They leered and muttered among themselves. Sophie avoided their eyes and concentrated on what she had to
do.

She won the contest, to a storm of applause, which she received flushing and laughing. Looking out over the heads of the crowd, her eyes found one face. Peter Robinson stood in the doorway,
smiling, hands raised, applauding. She wondered how long he had been there, and without thinking lifted her hand and waved to him. He saw that and his smile slipped away. He turned and walked out
of her sight.

‘Thank you!’ Sophie collected her prize of two guineas, picked up her coat and left the hall. Out on the pavement she looked for Peter Robinson but could not see him. The street was
busy, thronged with people. Trams clanged and rattled up and down with an occasional car hooting its way through. On a nearby corner the Salvation Army band boomed and blared brassily. Sophie
sighed and decided it was just as well she had not caught up with Peter. She had intended to ask him how he was, as a friend, but now she admitted that would have been a mistake. Peter would not be
satisfied with friendship. She would only have reopened an affair that she had closed at the cost of some pain to both of them.

She turned away from the din into the alley that ran along the blank side wall of the pub. This was a short cut to the stop where she could catch her tram. The alley was dark because the only
light had gone out, but that did not deter her. She was used to walking at night without fear.

She had scarcely taken a dozen paces into the gloom when heavy and hurried footsteps sounded behind her and a hand seized her arm and swung her against the wall. One of the three men she had
noticed earlier pressed against her. He was a head and shoulders taller than she, hair shorn down to his skull, muscular and heavy. McNally shoved his face close to hers and breathed,
‘You’re a bonny lass.’ Then his free hand went exploring. Sophie screamed, then realised with horror that no one would hear her above the din of the street and the band. She
fought and for a second McNally drew back his face, startled. He hissed, ‘Shut up! I’ll not hurt ye if—’

Then someone grabbed his shoulders, spun him around and hurled him aside. Caught unprepared, his legs tangled and he fell. Sophie saw Peter had taken his place. It was he who now gripped her arm
and hurried her on along the alley to its end. Sophie saw her tram rattling and swaying towards her stop and Peter pushed her in that direction. ‘Go on! Get away home!’ Shaken, she
obeyed, but when she reached the stop she remembered the other man and looked back to see if Peter was safe. She saw the big man burst out of the alley and now the other two men were with him. She
froze, one foot on the step of the tram.

Gallagher grabbed McNally and swung in front of him before he could reach Peter. McNally raged, ‘Get the hell outa my way! I’ll kill the bastard!’

Gallagher snapped at him, ‘Shut your row! If you start a fight here somebody will shout for the pollis and the pair o’ you will land up inside!’ He glared at Peter, who was
also standing ready with his fists up.

Fannon, sweating and waddling, said, ‘Aye, there’s a pollis up the street there now.’

Both he and Gallagher stood in McNally’s path, forcing the angry man to pause. Gallagher soothed him, whispering, ‘I told you I’d give you your chance at him. Now’s the
time.’ He turned his head to speak to Peter, challenging, ‘He wants to take you on. Fannon here will fix it up. What about it?’

Peter spoke to Fannon. ‘Aye. I’ll fight him. Where you like and when you like.’ He saw he was not about to be attacked now, lowered his hands and turned away.

Sophie had not heard the exchange, but now saw him go. A voice said irritably, ‘Are you gettin’ on or not?’ She realised the conductor was standing on the platform by her,
waiting impatiently, his hand lifted to the bell cord, ready to send the tram away.

‘Sorry.’ Sophie stepped aboard and found a seat inside. Her hands trembled when she took out her purse to pay for her ticket. She closed her eyes and relived those awful moments in
the alley. She did not want to think what would have happened if Peter had not been there. And she had not given him a word of thanks.