Chrissie's Children Page 6

  She stumbled on, ‘When we met you mentioned your interest in the film industry. Have you heard of a man called Phillip Massingham?’

  There was silence for only a second then Tourville said, ‘Massingham Films.’

  ‘That was his company.’

  ‘He got an offer from the States, sold out and went over there. That was over ten years ago.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s back in this country now.’ Chrissie took a breath and asked, ‘Can you get him a job?’

  Another silence, longer this time, then Tourville said, ‘I remember the work he did over here and I’ve seen some of the films he made in the States, too. But the last was three or four years ago and it’s what he can do now that matters.’

  ‘I’m sure he does good work.’ Chrissie tried to sound certain, prayed she was right.

  Tourville chuckled, then: ‘For you, I’ll give him a try. Where do I find him?’

  ‘You can write to him here.’ Chrissie gave him the address of the hotel then added, ‘I’m very grateful. If ever I can do anything for you . . .’

  Silence, then another chuckle and, ‘I may take you up on that.’

  6

  March 1936

  The club was only two or three streets from where Sarah Tennant lived, a few minutes’ fast walking through the rain. She hesitated for a moment at the foot of the steps leading up to the big double doors. They flapped continually as working men in cloth caps and scarves shouldered in and out. Nervousness made Sarah swallow but she told herself that she could not give up now she had got this far. She took a breath, climbed the steps and pushed in through the doors.

  An elderly man sat at a small table in the hallway, a glass of beer before him. He rose to his feet as Sarah entered, and challenged the slight, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl: ‘Now then, lass, what d’you want in here?’ But his friendly grin took the edge off the words.

  Sarah answered, ‘I wondered if they were needing some help behind the bar.’

  He shook his grey head. ‘Not as I’ve heard, but you’ll find the steward down the passage there, in his office.’

  Sarah followed the direction of his pointing finger. There were two doors at the end of the passage and one of them opened as she came to it. The man who stepped out was hardly taller than herself. She asked, ‘Excuse me, but are you the steward, please?’ Then she saw over his shoulder that the room he had come from was not an office. It was big, with a bare wooden floor, and several young men were skipping and shadow-boxing. She could just see one corner of a roped boxing-ring.

  The little man smiled and said, ‘No, lass. I’m Joe Nolan, the boxing trainer. The steward is in there.’ He nodded at the opposite door.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Sarah turned away, blushing with embarrassment.

  As Joe Nolan walked off up the passage he laughed and called back to her, ‘Never mind, lass!’

  Sarah knocked at the door and a voice bellowed, ‘Come in!’ The steward’s office was a small cubby-hole and the steward almost filled it. A big, burly man with a wide, red face and hard blue eyes, he stood behind his desk, glared coldly at Sarah and rumbled, ‘Aye?’

  Sarah whispered, ‘I wondered if you wanted . . .’

  He cut her off, bawling, ‘Can’t hear you! Deafened! Guns in Flanders!’ He tapped one ear with a thick finger.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Then Sarah realised he would not hear that, either. She raised her voice. ‘I’m sorry! I wondered if you wanted any help in the club? I mean, part time, at night?’

  His glare was unwavering and he shook his head. ‘You’re too young to wait on. I can’t have a bairn like you pulling pints, it’s against the law.’

  Sarah kept trying: ‘I can do cleaning. I’m really strong.’

  Still he glared. Sarah decided she had failed, and was about to turn away when he guffawed, his wide, red face splitting in a grin. ‘I can see that. You’re a regular Samson.’ Then the grin slipped away as quickly as it had come. He said tersely, ‘Can you wash glasses without breaking half o’ them?’

  Sarah answered eagerly, ‘Aye, I can.’

  He grumbled, ‘If that’s true you’ll be the first. Can you start now?’ He had sacked his regular washer-up the previous night after she had dropped a tray full of glasses after too many illicit nips of port. He saw Sarah nodding quickly and said, ‘Right you are, then. I’ll give you two and six a week.’

  Two shillings and sixpence! Sarah knew she and her mother could survive with that extra money. She took off her coat and put on the apron she had brought with her, in hope. She washed glasses in a little room behind the bar from seven till ten, then hurried home.

  At first she was filled with elation because now she and her mother would be able to make ends meet, but then her worries began to crowd in on her again. She was afraid of Fannon and afraid to tell her mother because it would upset her. Sarah knew she had to get away from Fannon somehow.

  When she arrived home and opened the front door she heard her mother coughing. It was a sound Sarah had lived with for months, but she had not grown accustomed to it. It seemed to be tearing her mother apart. The doctor had given her medicine but had said there was nothing more he could do. He had taken Sarah aside and told her, ‘Call me if she gets worse.’ Sarah wondered how much worse her mother could get, and was afraid for her.

  ‘Have you got the letter from Tourville?’ Chrissie smiled up at Phillip Massingham as they stood by the open door of the train.

  He tapped his breast pocket. ‘In here. I wouldn’t forget that.’ It was just a month since Chrissie had brought him back to the hotel. Now he wore a tailormade suit, one of two bought for him by Chrissie, along with a complete outfit of other clothes, including the overcoat laid on his seat in the carriage. There was flesh on his bones, colour in his cheeks and he stood straight. He said, ‘I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.’

  ‘Now don’t start that again.’ Chrissie knew he was nervous. ‘And don’t worry. They’re expecting you at the studios and you have a good reputation in the business in this country.’

  He nodded, acknowledging that. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever work in films again, let alone as a director.’

  The guard’s whistle shrilled. Chrissie shoved Phillip towards the train and he climbed up into the carriage. She closed the door behind him, and as he leaned out of the window she told him, ‘You can do it.’

  The train pulled away and he answered firmly, ‘Yes, I can.’

  Later that day Sophie poked her bobbed, blonde head around the door of her mother’s office in the Railway Hotel, smiled and asked, ‘Got a minute, Mummy?’

  Chrissie looked up from the menus for the following week that Jock Kincaid had submitted for her approval. ‘A minute? Fine. But what else?’ The challenge was stern but Sophie knew it was good humoured. She entered and Tom followed her.

  Chrissie’s brows lifted. ‘What are you doing here?’ Tom was a rare visitor to the hotel. He worked in Newcastle during the week and on Saturday mornings – and there was no reason for him to go to the hotel this Saturday afternoon during his precious free time. He wore a tweed sports coat and grey flannel trousers, a newly fashionable, collar-attached shirt and a tie.

  ‘I came in with Sophie.’ He grinned at Chrissie. ‘Or she came in with me. It turned out she didn’t have any money for the tram.’

  ‘Ah.’ That summed up Chrissie’s appreciation of the situation.

  Sophie went on to confirm it, hitching herself up to sit on the desk by her mother, long legs swinging. ‘I spent an awful lot of money at Christmas, on presents and – and things, and that left a sort of vacuum that’s sucked up my allowance since then—’

  Chrissie cut in cynically, ‘And your father is away for the weekend.’

  Sophie skated around that: ‘Well, there’s been so much to do, and everything seems to cost more these days than it used to, and I’m growing.’ She paused to take a breath.

  Chrissie recognised words taken out of her mouth that her daughter had hea
rd and cannily noted for use later: costs, and growing? That much was true: Sophie was turned fifteen now and becoming a woman before her mother’s eyes – physically. However, there was more to growing up than that, and Sophie still had a long way to go. Chrissie pointed out, ‘You don’t buy your clothes out of your allowance.’

  ‘No,’ Sophie conceded, ‘but I think I eat and drink more when I’m out now.’ She laid a hand on her mother’s and suggested, ‘If you could lend me half a crown, just till I get my next allowance . . .’

  Chrissie lifted the hand away. ‘I happen to know that allowance of yours is mortgaged for the next month.’ Sophie had asked for half-a-crown – two shillings and sixpence – so . . . Chrissie picked up her handbag from beside the desk and took out her purse. ‘Two shillings.’ She laid the florin on the desk. ‘No more. And don’t come back tomorrow, or batten on to your father as soon as he gets back.’

  ‘No, Mummy, I won’t. Thank you.’ Sophie scooped up the coin, slid off the desk and danced across the room.

  Tom smiled as he watched her gyrate out of the door and Chrissie asked him, ‘Are you managing to make ends meet?’ although she knew the answer.

  ‘I’ve got money to spare after I’ve paid for my digs and I’m even saving some,’ Tom assured her with pride.

  Chrissie prompted, ‘And still enjoying it?’ knowing that answer, too.

  It came pat and sincere: ‘Marvellous!’ Tom’s enthusiasm shone out of his face. ‘To see the ship growing a little bit every day, and knowing what you’ve put in yourself, even if it’s only a small drawing you’ve done in the drawing office, it’s, it’s . . .’ He stopped then, lost for words.

  Chrissie supplied one, teasing: ‘Marvellous!’ Tom laughed and Chrissie told him, ‘Now off you go and let me get my work done.’ She was still smiling when the door closed behind him.

  Tom found Sophie waiting out in the foyer, talking to a girl in an apron, her hair bound up in a kerchief. Sophie was taller, and the other girl was thin faced, slighter. Sophie turned as Tom came up. ‘There you are.’ Then to the girl, ‘Have you met my brother? Tom, this is Sarah Tennant, one of Mr Kincaid’s staff.’

  Tom said, polite, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’ Sarah had met Sophie many times because she was often in the hotel visiting her mother, and usually called into the kitchen for a cup of tea or glass of milk. She would talk to Jock Kincaid and the other kitchen staff and they would laugh – and shake their heads over her when she had gone. ‘She’s a little madam, that one.’

  Now Sophie, knowing Sarah’s shyness, teased, ‘He’s handsome, isn’t he?’ and grinned to see the colour flood into Sarah’s face.

  Tom did not notice her blushing. His casual glance had registered a quiet girl, two or three years younger than himself, and he thought of her as a schoolgirl. He did not blush and told his sister, ‘You do talk rubbish. Look, I have to go now, must get the paint I want.’ He lifted a hand in a parting salute and made for the door.

  Sophie watched him go, then turned back to Sarah. She saw the blush still there and stopped grinning. She squeezed Sarah’s arm and apologised. ‘I’m sorry. Just a joke.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Sarah pretended she had not been embarrassed and asked, ‘Does he paint a lot?’

  ‘No! Not him. Matt—’ she lifted a hand high above her head – ‘my other brother, the tall skinny one, he is the artist in the family. Tom only wants the paint for his plane. He makes models of aircraft and paints them like real ones.’

  Sarah said, ‘Oh, I see,’ though she was not sure that she did. Then she excused herself. ‘Mr Kincaid sent me out to the dining-room with a message and he’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’ She made her way back to the kitchen, but flushed again when she thought that Tom Ballantyne was handsome.

  ‘We’re going to the pictures!’ Helen Diaz protested. She and Sophie had arranged to see Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire in Roberta.

  Sophie soothed her, ‘Yes, we will. I just want to have a quick look in here,’ and she tugged Helen into Eade’s, the music shop.

  The ‘quick look’ dragged on for ten minutes as Sophie listened to records and perused sheet music, until Helen presented her ultimatum: ‘I’m going now.’

  Sophie caught her eye, saw Helen meant what she said and agreed, ‘All right.’ She bought a record and music then pulled a face at the coppers she received in change.

  Helen asked with foreboding, ‘What’s the matter?’ and then answered her own question with an accusation. ‘You’ve spent the money you wanted for the pictures!’

  Sophie led the way out of the shop and turned towards the cinema on the corner. Helen asked, ‘Are you going to ask your mother again?’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘She told me not to try.’

  ‘Well, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Just leave it to me.’ Sophie stopped outside the Regal cinema, ostensibly studying the stills mounted on a sandwich board in the foyer, but her gaze roved. She saw the two youths, yard workers out on a Saturday to spend their pay, as they sauntered into the foyer. Both wore double-breasted blue suits, collars and ties. She caught the eye of one of them, held it a moment then shyly looked away, but she was aware that they had stopped and had their heads together in muttered plotting.

  Helen, unaware, pressed her, ‘What are you going to do?’

  Sophie replied, ‘I’m doing it,’ as the youths swaggered over.

  One of them said, ‘Aye, aye.’

  Helen refused to look at him but Sophie did and repeated, ‘Aye, aye.’

  Encouraged, he asked, ‘Going in?’

  Sophie sighed, shook her head and smiled at him, rueful. ‘No money.’

  The second youth shoved forward to put in, ‘Come in wi’ us – our treat.’

  ‘Oh, we couldn’t,’ Sophie protested, but weakly.

  ‘Go on!’ they both urged.

  She hesitated, glanced at the red-faced Helen, and then as if seeing some signal there, said, ‘Well, all right.’

  Helen was helpless, overtaken by an unfamiliar situation. She had looked to Sophie for a lead and now did not know what to do, so she went along. After the tickets were bought and before they plunged into the darkness, Sophie warned their consorts, ‘No funny business in here, mind.’

  ‘No,’ they agreed, quickly but insincerely.

  Sophie watched the film, enjoyed it and kept the young man’s caresses within bounds. Once, intent on the screen, she told him, ‘Keep still. I want to see this bit.’ She was watching the stance and gestures of the singer. Once she brushed his hand from her leg and hissed, ‘I said no funny business in here!’ He accepted that.

  Meanwhile Helen sat two seats away, stiff with shyness and nerves, and held the hot hands of the other young man between her own.

  As they came out into the foyer Sophie’s young man said, ‘What about a drink, then?’

  Helen opened her mouth to utter a shocked refusal but Sophie got in first and said quickly, ‘Good idea, but we’ll just be a minute.’ She took Helen off and left the two youths waiting.

  In the passage leading to the ladies’ Helen objected, ‘We can’t go into a pub!’

  ‘We’re not.’ Sophie led on past the ladies’ and round a corner to the emergency exit. She pushed down the bar and the door opened into the street. A little crowd of a half-dozen youngsters, without the entrance money and waiting for a friend to open the door from inside, immediately rushed in. Sophie and Helen shouldered through them and hurried away.

  Sophie said happily, ‘Great picture, wasn’t it?’ When her friend did not answer, she glanced at her and asked, ‘What’s the matter?’

  Helen did not look at her. ‘Those chaps.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I didn’t like them. I didn’t know them! I didn’t like—’ She stopped.

  Sophie said, ‘Well, you’ve just got to keep them in order.’

  Helen said, ‘And it wasn’t fair. On them, I mean, letting them pay for us an
d think that . . .’ She stopped again.

  Sophie shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask them to take us in – they offered. And I didn’t promise anything. Isn’t that true?’

  Helen had to admit that it was, although she was still unhappy when they parted to board their respective trams. Sophie was more puzzled than concerned by her friend’s attitude but she soon shrugged that off. She was humming the songs from the film before she got off the tram. Then she sang them, panting, as she ran home.

  On the other side of the river Sarah Tennant ran all the way to the house of Dr Dickinson and hammered on his door. When he opened it she gasped out, ‘Please, Doctor, it’s me mam!’

  7

  April 1936

  ‘They want me to play in a match for the county schoolboys.’ Matt, home from school, grimaced and dropped the letter on the breakfast table. ‘Blow that!’

  Jack, his breakfast finished, looked up from The Times and scowled, irritated. ‘It’s usually considered to be an honour.’

  Chrissie concentrated on pouring tea then passed the cup and saucer to Sophie, but was wary.

  Matt had already turned down an invitation to play for the local club. Now he grumbled, ‘I don’t have to play. Sometimes I don’t want to play. I want to please myself, not turn out whenever somebody else wants me to.’

  Chrissie saw the anger on Jack’s face and put in quickly, ‘All right, Matt, that’s enough.’

  Sophie, ready for school in gym slip – another three days before the end of term for her – muttered, ‘I think Matt’s right. Why should he—’

  Chrissie rapped, ‘And that’s enough from you.’

  Sophie had not finished but she caught her mother’s eye and was silent. Jack shook his head in exasperation, then picked up his coffee cup and returned to reading. Chrissie relaxed.

  Jack set down his empty cup and folded the paper. He said quietly, ‘Hitler is in the news again. I don’t like the way things are going.’ He had voiced that worry before outside his home and no one had echoed it. He knew he was in a minority.