Chrissie's Children (20 page)

The bombing of Guernica changed that. Her father and brother had gone and now she was alone. ‘You must look to yourself.’ A small fire burned in the grate, just enough to take the
chill off the house and boil a kettle. Helen swept up the newspapers from the table and fed them into the fire. She watched the flames roar up the chimney and wiped at the tears that would not
stop.

The sitting-room of the Frigate was lined with leather-covered benches. The round-topped wooden tables gleamed with polish and a spittoon filled with sawdust sat under each
table. Pamela whispered, ‘Here.’ She pushed the half-crown into Matt’s hand. ‘Buy some more.’

Matt said, ‘Well . . .’ He looked up at the clock above the door to the bar, doubtful.

Pamela urged, ‘Go on! There’s plenty of time. It’s only eight o’clock.’ This had been her idea. She had asked Matt, ‘Can’t we go to a pub, somewhere
we’re not known?’ They were both underage, though Matt at nearly eighteen could pass for a year or two older with his height and breadth of shoulder.

Matt asked, ‘Are you all right?’ because Pamela had downed two gins and orange.

‘I’m fine.’ She smiled at him, rubbing his hand. ‘Go on, big boy.’

Matt swallowed his doubts and gave in. It was easy. Pamela was an attractive girl and he liked the envious glances he got from some other males. He lifted a hand and the woman waiting on in the
sitting-room came with her tray and took his order. ‘Gill o’ beer and a gin and orange, please.’ They had another round later and left just after nine because Pamela said,
‘Mam says I have to be in by ten.’

Once outside Pamela clung to Matt and giggled. He found he had to hold her steady or she would waver from side to side of the pavement. He worried that she might fall asleep in the tram but
instead she became more alive. Normally talkative, now she was silent as she held his hand. She clung to him as they walked the last quarter-mile to her home in the warmth of a spring night.

As they walked up the drive they could see chinks of light at the sides of the curtained windows. Matt said, ‘I’ll see you later, then.’ He did not want to leave Pamela but
neither did he want to meet her father. From what Matt had heard, Pamela’s father was a pompous bore.

But Pamela still held his hand, and pulled him on. ‘Round here.’ She led him down the side of the house to the garden at the rear and a summer house that stood there. She shoved the
door open, and the moonlight filtering through the windows showed that it held a lawnmower and some other tools used by the Ogilvys’ gardener. There were also a stack of basket chairs and a
pile of cushions that chanced to form a couch.

Pamela closed the door, sank down on to the cushions and drew Matt down with her.

Helen Diaz sold off the furniture and shut up the house as she had been told. All she took with her were her own clothes in one cheap suitcase and her few mementoes of her
mother. Among these was her birth certificate, and that of the sister who had died before she was born and been given the same name of Helen.

It was this one she produced when applying for a post as a student nurse because it showed her as being over eighteen. That and her record with the St John’s Ambulance Brigade saw her
installed in the nurses’ home.

On her first night there she went to her bed happier than she had been for a long time. Her heart still ached for the father and brother who had left her, but she would settle for being a nurse
and she knew her mother would be content.

Her only regret was that she no longer had a friend to share her happiness. She had not seen Sophie Ballantyne since their quarrel over Peter Robinson.

Some three months later, in June, the afternoon sunshine beamed like a spotlight through the window of Chrissie’s office in the Ballantyne Hotel. It reflected from the
dark, polished surface of her desk and lit up the notes laid out neatly across it. She looked them over again, partly to confirm the extent of Sophie’s sinning, partly to control her temper.
All the notes were written on plain stationery, her home address at the head, and all in a passable imitation of Chrissie’s own writing. The excuses were varied: a cold, a visit to the
dentist, a sprained ankle, etc. . . . All appeared to have been signed by Chrissie.

She pushed them away, sat back in her chair and looked across her desk at Ursula Whittle. Ursula had knocked at the door a few minutes ago and asked nervously, ‘Can I talk to you about
Sophie, Mrs Ballantyne?’ And then, ‘Did you write these letters?’

Now Chrissie said crisply, ‘I did not. They are forgeries.’

Ursula sighed. ‘Oh, dear. I was afraid you would say that.’

Chrissie poked at the note on the top with one slim finger, ‘This is dated the end of March. I take it that’s when this business started?’

Ursula nodded. ‘Her attendance record was good until then.’

‘And the increase in absences made you suspicious.’

Ursula blinked unhappily. ‘Well, no. To tell the truth I never doubted they were true until I had to go into town one afternoon and I saw Sophie going into a dance hall. The next day she
brought a note saying you had kept her at home with a stomach upset.’

Chrissie said grimly, ‘I see. Well, I would be grateful if you would leave me to deal with this. Is Sophie at school today?’

‘No,’ Ursula admitted, ‘and I’d be glad to leave this to you. I haven’t told the headmistress yet. I know I should, but something like this is an expulsion offence
and I can’t think Sophie deserves that. She must have had a good reason for acting as she has.’

‘I’m sure she had a reason.’ Chrissie collected the notes and locked them in her drawer. ‘Whether it was a good one is another matter. Where is this dance
hall?’

When Chrissie left the hotel a few minutes later she found the weather changing to match her mood. The storm clouds were gathering low and black as she drove round to the dance hall. It stood in
a neighbourhood of terraced houses and small shops, a shabby red-brick building stained nearly black by soot from the chimneys around it. The double doors were open but blocked by a sandwich board
bearing a chalked notice:

The first drops of rain fell, splashing big as florins on the dusty pavement. Chrissie edged past the board to reach the paybox where a man in shirtsleeves and braces sat
reading the
Sporting Man
. She took a sixpence from her purse and pushed it through the hole in the glass. ‘One, please.’

The man lowered the paper to gape at her. He warned her, ‘It’s only half past two. They won’t be playing till three.’

‘Are the band in there?’

‘Some o’ them, but . . .’

‘Then I’ll go in and wait.’ Chrissie took the small ticket he slid through to her and marched on.

The hall inside was dim, with curtains drawn over the windows against the last of the sunshine that still leaked around the edges in narrow shafts. There was a light over the stage on which
stood a drum kit, piano and four chairs set round a small card table. Three men sat on chairs playing cards. Their heads turned as Chrissie’s high heels tap-tapped across the dance floor.

She halted below the stage. ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine: Sophie.’ She noticed that the men were all in their thirties or forties and held the cards in hands roughened by
manual work.

One of them said, ‘Sophie Nightingale, you mean?’

Chrissie swallowed, then, ‘That’s right.’

‘Are you in the business an’ all, then? Looking for a job?’

Chrissie blinked at him. ‘A job?’ Then prevaricating, ‘I might be.’

‘You’ll need to sing better than Sophie, and that’ll take some doing. Tony will hang on to her for as long as he can, but he might send you on to somebody else that wants a
singer.’

Chrissie asked again, ‘Where is she?’

‘Tony’s having a word with her.’ He jerked a thumb, gesturing towards a door at the back of the stage.

Chrissie climbed on to the stage, using the steps at the side. In so doing she moved out of the dimness into the light and she saw the men’s faces change. They glanced at each other. As
she crossed to the door they watched her, suspicious of this slender woman, now seen to be well dressed and so out of place there. She harked back to the days of her youth and grinned at them.
‘I suppose you’re all working the night shift tonight.’

They relaxed as she spoke their language, showed she knew the economics of their lives. Their spokesman laughed. ‘Aye, we’re all working the neet. Making a bit extra this afternoon.
It’s easier than hewing coal.’

Chrissie paused at the door, tapped on a scarred panel then shoved it open and walked in. Half of the room formed an office, with a small desk at one side and an old settee with sagging springs
on the other. Sophie was seated on the settee with a man old enough to be her father. He was dark and thin, with a pencil line of moustache, his long hair oiled and slicked back from a central
parting. His arm was around Sophie’s shoulders and she was holding his free hand in both of hers. As Chrissie burst in on them he shoved up on to his feet, glared at her and demanded,
‘What the hell do you want?’

Chrissie crooked a beckoning finger at Sophie. ‘Come on.’

Sophie stood up, smoothing her dress down over her hips, objecting, ‘I don’t want—’

Chrissie recognised the dress as one of her own and raised her voice over Sophie’s to demand, ‘Come
on
!’

Tony took a pace towards her and started, ‘I don’t know who you are but—’

Chrissie rapped, ‘I’m her mother and I’m here to take her back to school.’

Tony swung on Sophie. ‘Is that right? This is your mother?’ Then he turned back to Chrissie, the significance of what she had said sinking in.
‘School!’

Chrissie nodded. ‘That’s right. She’s only sixteen.’

‘Good God!’ Tony took a quick shuffling sideways stride away from Sophie. ‘I haven’t touched her,’ he defended himself.

‘You’re lucky, then.’ Chrissie reached forward and grabbed Sophie’s arm, hustling her towards the door.

Sophie tried to resist and pulled back. ‘You don’t understand! I’ve got a job here! A regular job! Tea dances once or twice a week, evening dates Thursday, Friday and Saturday!
This is what I want to do!’

Chrissie refused to enter a tug of war but threatened, ‘You’re coming home with me! Now! And I swear to God I’ll call the police if I have to!’

That shook Tony DeVere into life. He rammed a hand into the middle of Sophie’s back and told her, ‘You did have a job here but not any more. Get out and take your mother with
you.’

Sophie turned her head, still resisting, and appealed to him, ‘What about all those things you just said about me? How I was one of the best band singers you’d ever heard? And we
were going to London and you would fix me up with one of the bands there?’

Tony winced and his eyes fell before Chrissie’s glare. ‘You can forget all that. Just now you’re more trouble than you’re worth. Now get away to hell out of here.’
He yanked open the door and shoved her out of the office. As Chrissie went to follow her he muttered, ‘Mind you, Mrs Whoever-you-are, that lass of yours does have real talent, a lot of
it.’

Chrissie snapped, ‘You can tell that to your wife. I bet she’d be interested!’

He glowered after her and hurled low-voiced curses at her retreating back as she ran across the dance floor in pursuit of the fleeing Sophie.

She caught her daughter at the entrance to the hall, where Sophie was struggling to get through a crowd sheltering from the rain that was falling in torrents now. She didn’t resist when
Chrissie seized her arm again and marched her to the waiting car. They did not speak on the drive home. Chrissie was too angry, Sophie too miserable. She walked into the house and up to her room
without saying a word.

Chrissie waited an hour for her anger to subside a little, then went to find Sophie, who had changed into a skirt and blouse of her own. Chrissie’s dress was on a hanger by the door. The
gramophone was playing, and Sophie lay on her bed, hands behind her head, sullen.

Chrissie said, ‘I’ve seen the notes you wrote to cover your absence from school. Are you sorry?’

‘I’m sorry I
had
to do it, not sorry I did it.’

Chrissie tried to reason with her. ‘I won’t let you waste your life—’

Sophie broke in, ‘I wouldn’t be wasting it. And it
is
my life! I’m going to be a singer, no matter what you say. You can stop me now but you can’t keep me here for
ever.’ Then she began to cry. Chrissie went to her, comforted her, and both said they loved each other. But still, at the end, Sophie said, ‘I
will
be a singer.’

Chrissie left her then and descended the stairs. She sat down on the last of them and cried again.

In Newcastle Tom, neat in his blue suit, returned to his lodgings after his day’s work to find his landlady sitting on the bottom stairs, her head in her hands. As he
entered by the front door she looked up and said weakly, ‘I’m sorry, Tom, but I had a funny turn. Just a touch o’ dizziness and headache. I get it now and again but it goes off.
I’ll have to go and see the doctor one o’ these days.’

But she never did.

Sophie thought about it for some weeks, but when she finally decided to act she did so in a hurry, before she could lose her nerve and change her mind. It was in August, during
the last days of the summer holidays, that she crammed her most precious possessions into a single suitcase. She carried it, tiptoeing, down the stairs while the staff were eating lunch in the
kitchen. Then she lugged it along under the trees that lined the road, changing it from hand to hand to ease its dragging weight.

When the tram stopped she shoved the case up on to the platform beside the driver, who reached a hand down to take it from her, then she ran around to the passenger entrance at the rear. Getting
off in Fawcett Street, she used the side entrance to the station so she could not be seen by her mother in the Ballantyne Hotel.

She left the suitcase in the station at the left luggage office, then took another tram across the bridge to Monkwearmouth. There she looked for Helen Diaz, only to find strangers in the rooms
where Helen had lived. The woman told her, ‘She left an address . . .’ so Sophie crossed the bridge again in yet another tram and asked for Helen at the nurses’ home.