Gaslight in Page Street (47 page)

William nodded. ‘I s’pose yer expected yer lad ter volunteer, didn’t yer, George? All the youngsters seem pretty keen ter get in the fight. My Jim an’ Charlie are both goin’ soon. I’m tryin’ ter talk young Danny out o’ goin’ but I s’pose ’e’ll join ’is bruvvers.’

Galloway took a swig from his glass and pulled a face. ‘I s’pose if we were younger we’d be in it. Look at the scrapes we got in as kids. It’s all a big adventure ter them, till they get up the front.’

William shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I ’ope it’s all over soon.’

‘It’ll drag on fer a few years, mark my words,’ Galloway replied, emptying his glass. He stared down at his boots for a few moments in silence. ‘I should fink we’ll be gettin’ busy, the way fings are. What about the ’orses? Any lame?’

William shook his head. ‘They’re all in good condition, except the Clydesdale. He’s bin off colour fer a few days an’ I’m restin’ ’im in the small stable, just in case it’s anyfink infectious. I don’t fink it’s anyfink ter worry about though.’

Galloway poured himself another drink and offered the bottle to his foreman. Normally William would have refused but today he took the bottle and poured himself a stiff draught. ‘What about Jake Mitchell?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Is ’e volunteerin’?’

George laughed. ‘Jake enlist? Yer jokin’, ain’t yer? He gets all the fightin’ ’e wants in the ring, or ’e did until the war started. ’E was doin’ well too. Four fights ’e ’ad an’ they all ended pretty quick. We’ve run out of opponents, an’ now all the young men ’ave joined up it’s gonna be even ’arder ter get ’im a match. I was talkin’ ter Don McBain the ovver evenin’ an’ ’e reckons they’ll be forced ter pack it in till the war’s over. It’s a bloody shame really.’

William made no reply. He disliked Mitchell intensely, although he had to admit that the man had given him no reason to apart from the one time when he first came to work at the yard. He did his work well enough, and after the roasting he had received from Florrie Axford his driving had been faultless. It was his surly manner that William did not like, and the mocking look in his eye which barely veiled the violence and ruthlessness lurking just below the surface.

Galloway had settled down with the bottle of Scotch. William made his excuses and walked out into the yard. Jack Oxford was leaning on his broom, a vacant look on his long gaunt face, and beyond the gates William could see Florrie talking with Maisie in the morning sunshine and Sadie whitening her front doorstep. The country was at war and most of the young men had gone to fight in France but around him nothing seemed to have changed. At the end of the turning the knife-grinder was busy, his foot working the treadle as he bent his head over the revolving stone. Trams passed by in Jamaica Road and women came into the turning carrying shopping-baskets. Everything appeared to be calm and normal, he thought, but who could begin to imagine what was happening behind a multitude of closed street doors and drawn curtains now that the casualty lists were being made known?

Carrie left her house that evening and met Tommy at the street corner. He had asked her to go with him to the Star Music Hall and she took his arm as they crossed the main road and walked along towards Abbey Street. It was getting dark as they passed the Catholic church and they could hear the choir practising and the solemn notes of the church organ.

Tommy had been unusually quiet and as they turned into Abbey Street, he broke his silence.

‘I’ve volunteered, Carrie,’ he said suddenly.

She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Yer’ve volunteered?! I don’t believe it,’ she cried.

He nodded and smiled sheepishly. ‘I went an’ signed on terday.’

‘But what about yer muvver?’ she asked incredulously.

‘Me eldest bruvver’s gonna take ’er ter live wiv ’im an’ ’is wife,’ he replied.

‘I don’t understand,’ Carrie said, her brows knitting together. ‘All this time yer’ve bin lookin’ after yer mum ’cos none of yer family would, an’ now yer tell me yer bruvver’s gonna take ’er?’

Tommy looked down at his shoes. ‘I went ter see Bob an’ I told ’im I’d enlisted. I told ’im I’d done my share of carin’ fer the ole lady an’ if ’e didn’t take ’er she’d be left on ’er own an’ end up in the work’ouse. We ’ad a few words but ’e finally agreed ter take ’er fer a month or two, an’ then ’e’s gonna get one o’ the ovvers ter do their share.’

‘But s’posin’ Bob ’ad said no, would yer still have gone an’ left ’er on ’er own?’ Carrie asked him.

Tommy smiled. ‘I volunteered after ’e said ’e’d take ’er. I wouldn’t ’ave left the ole gel on ’er own if ’e’d said no.’

Carrie pulled away from him as he attempted to take her arm and walk on. ‘But what about us?’ she cried angrily. ‘Yer could ’ave made some sort of arrangement like this ages ago. Yer know what it’s bin doin’ ter both of us. Yer couldn’t do it fer us, but yer could do it so yer could go away an’ fight. I jus’ can’t understand yer, Tommy.’

He looked into her eyes and saw tears welling up. ‘I know yer don’t, Carrie,’ he began softly, ’an’ I can’t explain it really. But yer gotta try an’ see it from my point o’ view. It’s bin ’ard copin’ wiv the ole lady. I’ve ’ad ter put ’er in bed when she’s bin too drunk ter make it up the stairs. I’ve ’ad ter pay the neighbours ter do the washin’ an’ ironin’. I’ve cooked the meals an’ kept the place clean, on top o’ goin’ ter work, I might say. I managed though an’ I never begrudged doin’ it, but now the war’s started I can’t miss out on it. I’ve got ter be part of it. A woman can never be expected ter understand ’ow a man feels about these fings. It’s just somefink inside me that tells me I mus’ go, even though I might get killed or badly wounded.’

Carrie shook her head slowly, trying to understand the idiocy of it all. ‘D’yer fink it’s some sort o’ game?’ she asked, her voice rising. ‘’Aven’t yer read about what’s ’appenin’ out in France wiv all them soldiers bein’ killed or maimed? Christ Almighty! Yer mad, Tommy. I’ll never understand yer. I never will, as long as I live.’

He could find no words to say that would calm her, no words to explain how he felt inside, and stood facing her helplessly as she backed away from him.

‘We’re finished!’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t wanna see yer again, ever!’

Tommy reached his hands out to her but she turned away and hurried off, her footsteps echoing loudly in the dark street.

At the Galloway house in Tyburn Square Nora Flynn was sitting beside the kitchen fire with the evening edition of the
Star
lying in her lap. She had finished reading the latest news from the front and glanced up quickly as Josephine bounded into the room.

‘I was just about ter start on that silver,’ she said, yawning and stretching out her feet towards the fire.

‘Leave it, Nora, you look tired,’ Josephine said, squatting down on her haunches on the hearthrug and holding her hands out to the warmth.

Nora shook her head and eased herself out of the rocking chair. ‘Never leave fer termorrer what yer can do terday is what I say,’ she intoned with feigned severity, wagging her finger at the young woman. ‘I like ter keep meself busy. It stops me finkin’.’

‘You’re worried about Geoff, aren’t you,’ Josephine said, getting up and turning her back to the fire.

Nora went over to the dresser and picked up a large silver salver which she loaded with small silver dishes from the cupboard. ‘These should ’ave bin done ages ago. They’re really stained,’ she said.

Josephine watched as Nora spread a cloth over the table and laid out the pieces of silverware. ‘You are worried, I can tell,’ she said. ‘It’s the news in the paper. I’ve already seen it.’

Nora rubbed away furiously at a dish with a piece of cloth she had wrapped around her forefinger. ‘’E’ll be goin’ soon. I wish ’e ’adn’t volunteered,’ she sighed.

Josephine sat down at the table facing Nora and rested her chin in her cupped hands. ‘I’ve decided to leave school,’ she announced, looking at Nora’s bent head.

‘But yer only seventeen. Yer’ve got anuvver year ter go yet,’ Nora replied, looking up quickly.

Josephine hunched her shoulders. ‘A lot of the girls are leaving now the war’s on. I’ve decided to train to be a nurse. They need lots of nurses and it’s what I want to do,’ she said firmly.

‘And what did your farvver say when yer told ’im?’ Nora asked, breathing on the dish and rubbing it with the cloth.

‘I haven’t told him yet, but I don’t care what Father thinks, I’m doing it anyway,’ Josephine answered defiantly.

Nora studied the young woman for a few moments then dropped her gaze to the dish she was polishing. How quickly she had grown up, and how like her mother she was in looks. She had her father’s determination and wilfulness as well, and would not be easily dissuaded. ‘But I thought yer’ve gotta be eighteen before yer can be a nurse,’ Nora queried.

‘Yes, that’s right, but they said I could be a volunteer with the Red Cross,’ Josephine replied quickly. ‘I can do duty at the railway stations when the wounded soldiers come home on those troop trains. There’s lots of things to do, like giving the men drinks and helping them write letters to their family. There’s other things I can manage, too. They need volunteers to help with the dressings and things.’

‘It doesn’t sound very nice fer a young gel your age ter do those sort o’ fings,’ Nora said, concerned. ‘They won’t be pretty sights. There’s men what’s bin blinded an’ crippled, an’ some o’ those wounds’ll be terrible ter see. Are yer sure that’s what yer wanna do, luv?’

Josephine nodded with conviction. ‘I’ve made up my mind, Nora. It’s something worthwhile and I won’t be put off.’

Nora smiled and put down the dish. ‘No, I don’t fink yer will an’ I’m proud of yer, but yer must realise, Josie, it won’t be an easy fing ter do. Yer’ll be seein’ terrible sights. I was readin’ about these casualties in the paper an’ it was makin’ my stomach turn.’

‘I’ve read it, Nora, and I know what it’ll be like,’ the girl replied. ‘I’ve been worried about Geoffrey and I got to thinking, supposing he got wounded. I’d want someone to care for him and make him comfortable. I couldn’t just get a job in an office and leave it up to other people to volunteer. I just couldn’t.’

‘I know, dear,’ Nora said kindly. ‘Now that’s enough o’ the war fer the time bein’. Pass me the rest o’ that silver, could yer? Gawd, I’ll be ’ere all night wiv this lot.’

The kitchen fire burned brightly. Its flames were reflected in the shining silver dishes lined up on the dresser. Heavy curtains were drawn tightly against the darkness outside, and while the rising wind howled and rattled against the windows the copper kettle was warming steadily on the hob. The two women sat comfortably by the hearth. Nora’s rocker creaked as it moved back and forth. The older woman looked down at her sewing through glasses perched on the end of her nose, and the younger sat back in her chair, pale blue eyes staring unblinking into the glowing coals. Neither had spoken for some time, each wrapped up in her own private thoughts. The newspaper lay discarded at Nora’s feet, the headline banner proclaiming, ‘Heavy Casualties at the Marne’.

Nora put down her sewing and took up the tongs to place a large knob of coal on the fire. The shower of sparks roused Josephine from her reverie and she cast her eyes around the shadowy room.

‘Did you know my mother very well, Nora?’ she said suddenly.

‘What made yer ask that, Josie?’

‘Oh, I was just thinking.’

Nora pressed her feet down on the floor to stop her chair rocking and folded her arms. ‘I knew yer muvver, but not all that well,’ she replied slowly. ‘I used ter meet ’er sometimes an’ we’d stop an’ talk like yer do. She was always very pleasant, an’ she liked ter talk about the boys an’ about yer farvver. She never was one ter talk about ’erself as I remember.’

‘Do you think Father and her were happy together, Nora? Really happy, I mean?’ Josephine asked.

‘Yer a strange gel! The fings that go frew that ’ead o’ yours. ’Course they were - at least, I should fink so. I never ’ad reason ter fink ovverwise,’ Nora answered.

Josephine stared down at the fire again. ‘Are you and Father . . . I mean, do you and Father like each other?’ she asked falteringly.

Nora looked at the top of Josephine’s lowered head. ‘If yer mean, do we be’ave like man an’ wife, no. At least not any more.’

‘You and Father have been lovers then?’

‘Yes.’

‘I guessed as much,’ Josephine said, looking directly at Nora.

‘Does that shock yer?’

Josephine leaned forward and squeezed the housekeeper’s arm gently. ‘I’m not shocked. Why should I be? I’ve always looked on you as my mother. You’re the only mother I’ve ever known. It seemed right that you and Father should, you know, sleep together. Why aren’t you now?’

Nora sighed deeply and started the chair rocking again. ‘Yer farvver’s never really got over yer muvver dyin’ the way she did. I’m sure ’e blames ’imself fer what ’appened. I just filled a gap in ’is life. I was there when ’e needed comfortin’.’

‘But you’re still here, Nora. Why must he turn to the bottle for comfort?’ Josephine asked, frowning.

Nora looked down at her folded arms. ‘I dunno the answer ter that one, Josie. I expect the ache inside of ’im is too much fer the likes o’ me ter ease. Whisky does it fer yer farvver. It dulls the pain ’e’s feelin’ an’ finally sends ’im off ter sleep. It’ll kill ’im in the end though, I’m sure it will.’