Chrissie's Children (31 page)

‘Are you all right, bonny lass?’ Joe Nolan took her arm and she nodded, breathless. He grinned at her. ‘We’ll make a boxer out o’ you yet. Or a steeplejack, the way
you went ower that wall . . .’ He shook his head in admiration and went with her as she crossed to Peter’s side. His face was bloody and bruised, swollen. He still wore his jacket but
that and his shirt were ripped so they hung on him. He was breathing deeply, head back.

Sophie said, ‘You’re hurt,’ and her own hurt was in her voice.

Peter shook his head. ‘Not bad. A few bumps, nothing serious, but it was a good job Joe turned up when he did.’

Joe said, ‘Not me. Thank the lass here. She brought me and she climbed ower the wall to open the gate. I think if it hadn’t been for her you’d ha’ been crippled for
life.’

Peter squinted at Sophie out of one half-closed eye then seized her arm, urged her aside so Joe could not hear and said bitterly, ‘Thank you – Miss Ballantyne.’ He saw her
flinch as if he had struck her and went on, ‘I got the sack from Ballantyne’s – Gallagher fixed me – but I was down by the yard one day, pushing a barrow loaded wi’
coal, when your father picked you up in the car. I saw you’d been having a bit o’ fun wi’ me while you waited for some rich feller to come along.’

‘
No
!’ Sophie tried to slap his face with her free hand. The move so surprised him that he grabbed her wrist only just in time to ward off the blow. He held her for a second,
his fingers biting into her, then he saw her wince. The oil lamp’s glow glittered on tears in her eyes.

Peter let Sophie go and said, ‘Sorry.’ And again, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

The tears were not caused by the pain in Sophie’s arms. She said, ‘I wouldn’t hurt you, either. It wasn’t like that – what you said. I liked you but I didn’t
– don’t want to be serious. I don’t want to marry and I’m not waiting for “some rich feller”. I told you once before, I want to be a singer. That first time we
met, I couldn’t use my real name in that talent contest and – and it just went on from there. I wasn’t trying to fool you, just protecting myself.’ Now the tears mingled
with the rain on her face.

Peter reached out to touch her arm, but gently. ‘All right. I got the wrong idea. But you can see how it looked to me.’ Sophie nodded and wiped her eyes with the heel of her
hand.

Now Joe called, ‘Let’s get outa here.’ Gallagher was on his feet again but holding on to a cart with one hand clutching his middle where Joe had hit him. McNally was sitting
up, his head in his hands.

Peter said, ‘Just a minute.’ He walked past them to where Fannon sat in the mud, wiping it from his face. Peter said, ‘It was ten quid if I won.’ He held out his hand.
Fannon delved into his pocket and then counted the notes into Peter’s hand. His fingers closed around them and he looked at Sophie and Joe. ‘I’m ready.’

Sophie asked, ‘Aren’t you going to call for the police?’

Peter shook his head and jerked a thumb at Gallagher and McNally. ‘They’ll not get me again and I’ll keep out o’ their way. I’ve got a job on a ship and I want to
get to it tonight. We won’t tell the pollis anything.’

The taxi took Joe back to the club, then Sophie told its driver, ‘Home, now.’ She gave him the address in Ashbrooke – there was nothing to hide now and he cheered up, confident
he would get his fare at last.

Peter protested in whispers, aware of the driver’s back in front of him, ‘I want to go home!’

Sophie hissed, ‘What would your mother think?’

‘She knows I fight. She’s seen me next day.’

‘She hasn’t seen you like this.’ He had never been beaten so badly as this night. That silenced Peter for a moment and Sophie went on, ‘Does she mind you
fighting?’

‘Aye.’ His mother had confirmed her hatred of it less than an hour ago. If she saw him as he was now . . . He did not speak during the rest of the journey.

At the house Sophie paid off the taxi driver and took her overnight case as he handed it to her. ‘He’ll have something to talk about,’ Sophie said drily as he drove away. He
was rehearsing his tale already, practising phrases: ‘Why, man, she went ower that wall like a monkey . . . been a hell of a fight . . . fellers lying about . . . clothes tore off his back .
. . And they finished up in Ashbrooke!’

Peter said, ‘I’ll carry that,’ and took the case.

The house was dark and silent, the staff gone home to bed. None of them lived in now. Sophie had her key and let them in. She found a note on the side table in the hall beside the telephone. Her
mother had left it there for any of the staff who had to answer the phone: ‘I will be working late at the hotel and staying there tonight, but I will be home for dinner, with Mr Ballantyne,
tomorrow night.’ Sophie thought that was convenient – and she wanted to talk to her father. She said, ‘We have the place to ourselves, so you won’t have to meet my
mother.’ She eyed his battered appearance and grinned. ‘Probably just as well.’

She showed him to one of the bathrooms upstairs. ‘You can have a bath. I am.’ Then she saw his face and burst out laughing. ‘Not in here!’

He grinned sheepishly.

Later, he wearing a robe of her father’s, she in fresh clothing, Sophie cleaned his cuts and gave him a jacket and shirt. ‘They’re some of my brother Matt’s old clothes.
I’ve put your trousers in front of the kitchen stove to dry. You can have a pair of Matt’s socks, too.’ She wondered briefly where and how Matt and Helen were and prayed they were
safe. She said, ‘He wouldn’t mind.’

Peter said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you tonight – or ever again.’

‘I couldn’t leave you to that.’ She was intent on dabbing at a cut on his jaw. ‘Can’t you give it up?’

‘I was going to. This was my last fight. I got the sack from the yard and I took on the fight for the money. My mother’s poorly and there’s my brother, he’s only nine.
But I’ve got a job now.’

Sophie said, ‘Keep still. I can’t do this while you’re talking.’ She was seeing him in a different light, but did that change anything?

Peter said, ‘Sorry.’ He could feel her breath on his cheek, smell her perfume. He felt awkward and rough.

Sophie went on with her task and finally lifted her hand from his face. ‘There you are, all done.’

Peter said, ‘Thanks for letting me get tidied up here. I wouldn’t have wanted to go home as I was.’ He hesitated, then explained, ‘I don’t want to upset my mother.
The doctor says her heart is weak.’

Sophie laid a hand on his. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Aye, well.’ He read the time on the watch on her wrist, the watch that had impressed him. Now he knew how she had been able to afford it. He said, ‘I’ve got to get away.
I have to join a ship tonight.’

Sophie telephoned for another taxi while he dressed. When it arrived Peter objected, and she explained, ‘Look, Peter, I’m getting the taxi so I can see you off, and I’m giving
you a lift. I can afford it. The band pays me five pounds a week.’ She admitted that a little guiltily because she knew roughly what he would earn in the yard or at sea.

He stared at her then grinned. ‘I wonder if Joe Nolan could teach me to sing.’

So they went out laughing, she with relief.

The taxi took them from the big house in Ashbrooke to the two rooms that were his home, to collect his kit. His mother sat in her armchair by a fire that blazed in the blackleaded grate. The
brass fire irons and fender around it all gleamed.

Peter introduced her: ‘Mother, this is Sophie, a friend of mine. She’s coming down to see me off.’

Margaret Hackett’s eyes were on Peter as she started to get up from her chair, and she asked anxiously, ‘You’re not hurt?’

‘No!’ Peter laughed, but he was careful to keep his head turned so she would not see one of his eyes was almost shut. ‘Some bumps and bruises, that’s all. Here you
are.’ He pressed the roll of pound notes into her hand. ‘That will keep you and Billy till I get paid.’

His mother, relieved that he was unhurt, now had time to smile at Sophie. ‘That’s a bonny lass you are. I’ll just put the kettle on for a cup o’ tea.’

‘Not now, Mother, we haven’t time.’ Peter put his hands on her shoulders and gently seated her again. ‘I’ve got to get aboard.’ He brought his case from the
other room and bent to kiss her.

She clung to him. ‘I wish you weren’t going. Look after yourself, son.’

‘Aye, I will.’ Peter released her and held open the door for Sophie.

Margaret Hackett wiped at her eyes and called, “Bye, ‘bye, bonny lass. You’re always welcome,’ and wondered why Peter had never mentioned her before.

Peter swung his suitcase into the waiting cab and said gruffly, ‘She doesn’t like me going to sea.’

Sophie said, ‘Of course she doesn’t.’ They sat in silence, conscious of the driver as the taxi took them down to the dock. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear but there
was a cold wind knifing in up the river from the sea. They left the taxi at the gate and walked down through the dark and deserted dock to where Peter’s ship, the SS
Chatterton
, an old
steam tramp, lay by the quay.

Sophie stood on the quayside as Peter carried his case up the gangway and then down the ladder into the fo’c’sle. One dim light burned in there showing the bunks set against the
steel sides of the ship that glistened with condensation. The air was fetid with a smell of used breath, salt air, sweat and stale beer. All of the bunks seemed to be occupied by blanket-wrapped
bodies, some snoring and all asleep bar one.

Harry Latimer lay reading but he looked up as Peter entered and set a finger on the book to mark his place. ‘So you decided to take the job.’

‘Aye.’ Peter glanced round the bunks.

Harry said, ‘Take that one.’ He nodded towards one empty bunk. ‘It belonged to the feller you’re replacing.’

Peter dumped his case on the bunk. ‘Has he got a better job?’

‘Mebbe. He was lost overboard last trip.’ Harry went back to his reading, but as Peter set his foot on the ladder again Harry called after him, ‘You’re a mug. Take the
advice of another. You’ve seen what it’s like in the fo’c’sle, so get your tickets to be a mate and get out of it.’ Then as Peter stared back at him, Harry closed his
book and turned on to his side to sleep.

Peter hurried back across the gangway and Sophie asked, ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, aye, fine.’ It was a job.

They walked back to the gate where the taxi waited. They halted then and there was an awkward silence as he watched her and she looked at the river and the ship, the dock . . . Then she returned
his gaze and asked, ‘Friends?’

‘If you want.’ He would settle for that, for now. ‘We couldn’t be anything else, you being who you are, me what I am.’

‘Oh, Peter!’ That hurt her. Sophie put her hands on his shoulders to kiss him, and he suffered it, standing straight with his fists, their knuckles skinned, hanging by his side. She
released him when the taxi driver coughed ostentatiously. She whispered, ‘Come home safe.’ Her fingers brushed Peter’s cheek lightly then she was in the cab and it was pulling
away.

Peter walked back through the darkness of the dock and climbed into his bunk. He lay awake a long time, not because of his strange surroundings but thinking of what Harry Latimer had said. And
of Sophie Ballantyne. When he finally slept his mind was made up.

Sophie lay awake a long time, unhappy. Peter had agreed that they would be friends, and that would be ideal, wouldn’t it? That was what she had asked for and now she had got it . . .

Jack Ballantyne came home the next day. ‘Did you have any luck?’ Chrissie kissed him as he stepped off the train on his return from Holland, and guessed the answer
before he shook his head.

‘No.’ Then he asked in his turn as they climbed the stairs from the platform to street level, ‘Have you heard anything of Matt?’

‘Nothing. Not from the Foreign Office or Matt himself. The post will be difficult, of course, and communications poor because of the war.’ She made the excuses as much to reassure
herself as for Jack. Then, to cheer him, ‘Sophie is home so you’ll see her. Just for a few hours, though, because she’s going down south again tonight on the sleeper. I wrote and
told you about the job she landed down there.’

Jack brightened at news of his daughter; he missed her. He asked, ‘How is that working out?’

‘She seems to be a success.’ Her enthusiasm was assumed; Sophie’s choice of career was still not Chrissie’s. She was curious: ‘I’m not sure why she came up.
It was a flying visit. She tells me she arrived yesterday evening but I didn’t see her until today. She came home late last night but I’d decided to work late and sleep at the
hotel.’ Chrissie smiled up at him. ‘I get a bit lonely in there on my own. Sophie seemed happy when I saw her this morning but was a bit mysterious, said she would tell us all about it
when you got back.’

Sophie did, telling them how she had met Peter, of his fighting to support himself and his family, how he had beaten McNally and the attempt at revenge by Fannon, Gallagher and McNally. Her
voice was shaking when she finished, They would have beaten him senseless, probably crippled him, if Joe Nolan hadn’t stopped them.’ She didn’t mention her own involvement in the
struggle in Jackie’s yard.

Sophie travelled south on the sleeper that night.

The following day Jack Ballantyne sacked Gallagher and McNally. He told them, ‘You’re getting off lightly. I understand the man you attacked does not want to press
charges. If this had gone to the law you would have wound up with a jail sentence.’

Outside on the street and storming away from the yard, Gallagher fumed, ‘We’ll have to get out of this town because we’ll get no work in any o’ the yards on this
river.’

McNally grumbled, ‘That’s a bloody fact. Where d’ye reckon we should go?’

‘I don’t know, but there’s other places that build ships. Maybe we’ll find jobs on the Tyne or the Clyde.’ Then he glowered at McNally and asked, ‘You know
who told him?’

‘Aye, that lass of his. The one we’ve seen with him at the yard. You said she was at the fight the other night.’ McNally spat. ‘Little bitch.’