The Turner household became a place of heavy silences. In life, Archie had united them, they had been a solid conspiracy against him. But the manner of his death divided them. None of them talked about it, but it was always there. They each kept it locked up inside them.
Gradually, without even realizing they were doing it, every one of the brothers and sisters spent more and more time away from home. Harry’s job had always taken up most of his time. Now his spare hours were spent almost exclusively with his single friends. Ida and Florrie were courting. Johnny left school and started as an apprentice lighterman, coming home exhausted each night to sleep like the dead. Young Bob was the most faithful member of the Trinidad Street gang, appearing at home only at meal and bedtimes or when he was forced to do chores. From the outside they looked like a normal family. Only Milly, helpless in her pit of depression, seemed any different. But each one of them knew that they were drifting apart, and none of them knew how to stop it. In a way, none of them even wanted to, for to be together was to remember that night when they had acted as one, and they all wanted to forget.
One evening the following April, Jimmy Croft came to call. He stood in the kitchen doorway, his cap held tightly in front of him, as if uncertain what to do next. Tea was just finished and the girls were clearing away the dishes. Bob had been sent out the back to fetch in some coal, Johnny and Milly were still at the table, Johnny was asleep with his head cradled in his arms, and Milly just sat there, looking down at her hands.
Harry glanced at his sister, expecting her to go and greet her sweetheart, but she just went bright red and whipped out into the scullery. So he nodded to Jimmy.
‘Wotcher, mate. You staying till Florrie’s ready? Might be a drop left in the pot if you want it.’
‘No – er – yeah – that is, I am, but I wanted to have a word with you first.’
‘Oh. Right. What was it, then?’
‘Er – it’s a bit . . .’
Jimmy was rapidly turning as red as Florrie. Harry suddenly caught on. He grinned, and the weight inside him lifted for the first time in months.
‘Got you now, mate. Best come in the parlour.’
They stepped into the chilly little front room. From the other side of the door scrabbling feet and Ida’s high-pitched giggle could be heard. Harry guessed there were ears pressed to the door. Jimmy looked acutely uncomfortable. He started several times, but failed to get through a coherent sentence.
‘It’s our Florrie, ain’t it?’ Harry said, helping him along.
‘Yeah – that’s it.’ Jimmy snatched eagerly at this lifeline. ‘I thought, well, now your dad’s gone, it’s you I got to see.’
‘Want to get married, do you?’
‘Yeah, but, it’s a bit difficult . . .’
Harry could see no difficulty. Getting married seemed the best thing Florrie could do, and Jimmy was a good bloke. Briefly he wondered if she was pregnant and a quick wedding was needed. That would account for Jimmy’s embarrassment.
‘What’s the matter, then?’ he asked.
‘It’s her. She don’t – it’s like she’s a different person since your dad went. I can’t say how.’ He waved his hands about helplessly. ‘She’s just – different. It’s like she’s holding out on me, somehow.’
Harry knew what he meant. Florrie was just the same with him. She never had been much of a one for talking, not like Ida, but where once they had been able to discuss things that really mattered, now there
was a barrier between them. Of course he knew why, but he could not tell Jimmy that. He tried to decide what he
could
say.
‘You still want to marry her, though?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Jimmy was definite on this point.
‘And she wants to marry you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Why don’t you just go ahead, then? Florrie, she, well – I think she feels bad because she always wanted him to die, see? And now he has, it’s like she wished it on him. What with Mum taking it so bad and all, it’s made her go ever so quiet. But I think she might cheer up if you got wed. It’s not much of a laugh in this house at the moment, I can tell you. You get her out of here and she’ll be her old self again, most like.’
Jimmy relaxed. ‘You don’t mind, then?’
‘Mind? I’m pleased for you! Best thing that’s happened in our family for ages. Here – shake on it.’
Smiling now, Jimmy grasped Harry’s hand in both of his.
‘Thanks, mate. Thanks a million. I’ll look after her like she’s made of glass.’
‘I know you will, Jim. She deserves it, does our Florrie.’
They went into the kitchen to break the news to the rest of the family. Amidst the laughter and back-slapping and ribald remarks, nobody noticed that Milly withdrew even further into herself, or that Florrie did not actually say very much.
‘My little sister! Ain’t it lovely? They’ll make a lovely pair, her and Jimmy. Oh, I’m ever so glad. Ain’t you glad, Will? Be nice to have a wedding. It’ll cheer Mum up and all. We ain’t had a wedding since Ellen and Gerry. Been nothing but funerals. I suppose I’ll have to wear the same old hat. Still, never mind, eh? Still be nice to think about. Perhaps I can get some flowers for it. What d’you think, Will? D’you think we could afford some new flowers for my hat, seeing as it’s my sister and all?’
‘What?’ As usual, Will was not listening.
‘My hat, I can’t wear it again, can I? Not for a wedding. Have to get some new flowers.’
‘Who bloody cares?’ Will shrugged.
‘Oh, Will, don’t you never care about nothing?’ Maisie looked crestfallen. Tears filled her eyes. ‘It’s my sister getting married. You ought to be pleased.’
‘Why? Because that poor sod Jimmy Croft’s getting spliced? I only hope he gets more fun out of Florrie than what I done out of you.’
The tears spilled over, trickling down her face. ‘You’re horrible to me, you are. What have I ever done for you to treat me so horrible? I look after you proper.’
Will groaned in exasperation. ‘For God’s sake, stop snivelling,’ he shouted.
Maisie only cried the more, while Alice, clinging to her skirts, joined in in sympathy. Lily and Albert’s faces appeared, pressed against the back window. It was raining outside and they wanted to come in. Their voices were added to the general din.
‘Shut your row!’
Will put his hands to his head, but as he did so they caught in the wet washing hanging from the strings across the ceiling. A damp shirt slapped down across his head. It was the last straw.
‘It’s Saturday night and I worked hard all week. Six days, with overtime every evening. I’m fed up, d’you hear? Fed up! All I want’s a bit of peace and quite in my own home and I get you and your bloody kids howling in my ears. Well, that’s it, I’m going out. And don’t wait up ^^cos I might be late, or I might not come back at all!’
He slammed out of the house, taking pleasure in hearing Maisie’s wail of dismay as he did so. He set off down the street, hands in pockets, head down against the rain. He kicked at a stone, venting his anger on it.
‘Bloody families!’ he growled. ‘Bloody women!’
He could see no end to it. Life was just one long dreary treadmill. The only thing that had happened lately to break the monotony had been his father-in-law’s death, and that had done nothing but make Maisie go on and on about how badly her mum had taken it and how worried they all were.
However hard he worked, there never seemed to be enough money. With every baby, Maisie got more scrawny-looking and the house got fuller. He’d been glad when she miscarried the last three. It meant having her weeping about the place for weeks on end, but she got weepy when she did have babies, and it was better than having more mouths to feed.
Without conscious thought, his feet had taken him not to the Rum Puncheon but to the West Ferry Road. He was at the bus stop. He knew then where he was going – off the Island, away from it all, to the place where anything might happen.
The bus was packed with a noisy mass of humanity reeking of wet clothing, sweat and cheap cigarettes. Will had to stand all the way. Then there was a wait in the relentless rain until the tram came. He got
a seat this time, but was jammed in by an enormously fat woman who wheezed as if every breath was her last. Will kept his thoughts doggedly on where he was going. Everything would be all right once he got there. He would step into another world. Even the past week of back-breaking overtime was worthwhile now, since he had money in his pocket. Not very much, but enough.
It was pouring when he got off the tram and set off to walk the last part of the journey. His shoulders were soaked to the skin by the time he got there and his trousers were clinging to his legs. One of his boots was leaking. The Saturday-night traffic crawled endlessly past him, cabs, carriages, motor cars, all noisy and smelly in their own way, all driven by men made bad-tempered by the rain. The puddles were slicks of liquid mud composed mostly of oil and horse droppings. Every time he was forced too near the edge of the pavement, he got splashed by passing wheels or hoofs. But through the downpour he could see the bright lights like coloured stars on the front of the theatre, the welcoming yellow warmth of the foyer spilling out on to the pavement. Without realizing he was doing it, he straightened his back and put a spring into his step. He joined on the end of the queue to get in, and was enveloped in the heat, the soft carpets, the glorious red and gold decor.
Then a new worry hit him as he shuffled towards the box office. Supposing there were no seats left?
‘Yes?’ The attendant did not even look at him.
‘One for the gods, please.’
He pushed his money across the counter. A ticket was pushed back. Relief flooded through him. It was all right.
Up the endless flights of stone steps and into the gallery he bounded, as light as a twenty-year-old. A wall of warmth hit him. The excited chatter of hundreds of voices wrapped round him. He found a place on the end of a bench at the very back, so that he had a clear view down the narrow aisle. He was level with the lights up here, but the seats were so steeply raked that it felt as if he was right on top of the stage. One good jump and he would land on it. As the water trickled off the ends of his trousers and his jacket started to steam, the outside world gradually ceased to exist until there was nothing but here and now, and what was to come. He sat taking in the atmosphere as he dried out, anticipation winding pleasurably inside him.
He had been to enough halls to know that this was a good one. There was a proper band, the master of ceremonies handled the audience with skill, and there was a good line-up of acts. He laughed at
the comics and joined in the choruses with the singers. All the time the tension was building into a great ball, filling his guts, squeezing his lungs until he could hardly contain it.
The master of ceremonies banged his gavel. His barrel chest inflated, his red nose shone. His voice boomed out to fill every last corner of the auditorium.
‘And now, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, for your delectation and delight – with a voice as sweet as the flowers in spring and feet as light as raindrops . . .’
It had to be her.
‘Songs that would melt a heart of stone . . .’
It must be her.
‘All the way from the Emerald Isle . . .’
It
was
her.
‘Your sweetheart and mine – Miss Siobhan O’Donaghue!’
‘Ye-e-eah!’
Will shouted and whistled and stamped his feet. He craned forward. The red curtains swept apart. A line of music from the band and there she was, picked out in the beam of the spotlight, as fresh and beautiful and unspoilt as the day he first saw her. In her flouncy green and yellow dress, with her hair tumbling in curls down her back, she did not look a day over sixteen – a fresh, innocent girl with the flowing curves of a woman. Will watched, entranced. The theatre melted away. There was nothing but him and her.
The words and the music swirled around him, a sweet little ditty about the one true love she always remembered. She advanced and retreated, smiling, flirting, seeming to promise everything and snatching it away. She knew he was there, she must do. She was looking right at him. She was singing it for him, his Siobhan. The years rolled away. She was offering him the chance to run away with him again. This time there would be no hesitation.
Her song ended. He applauded until his work-hardened hands hurt. The curtains closed, cutting her off from him. He sat in a daze, seeing and hearing nothing of what was going on around him. He did not even realize the next act was on stage. He had to see her again, face to face. She was waiting for him, he knew it. She had been waiting all this time. He would speak to her after the show. Somehow or other, he had to get to her dressing room. She would let him in, he was sure of it. He sat in a sweat of longing.
Out of nowhere a dreadful thought struck him. She would not be here at the end of the show. All artistes did at least two turns a night,
many managed three. She would be at the next theatre. He leapt out of his seat and blundered towards the exit. Down the steps he charged, his boots ringing on the flecked stone, his heart pounding. She could not have left yet. She must not.
‘Don’t go,’ he muttered out loud. ‘Wait for me.’
He went out into the cold and wet again. The rain cooled his flushed face as he paused, looking wildly this way and that, trying to get his bearings. Which way was the stage door? He plunged to his right and came to the corner of the building. He peered through the murk for a light or a notice. Nothing. He tried again. There was a cobbled alleyway on the other side of the theatre. A female figure stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of him, blocking his way.
‘Hello darling, where’re you going so fast? Fancy a nice time?’
A waft of cheap scent in his nostrils, nearly choking him.
‘Piss off!’ He pushed her out of his way, not even hearing her squall of protest. There was a cab ahead of him, practically filling the alleyway. Level with its roof he could see a dim lamp with lettering on it. He knew what it said:
Stage Door
.
He squeezed between the cab and the wall. There was no one else waiting at all. The rain had seen them off. He poked his head inside the door, to be growled at by the stage doorkeeper.