The Factory Girl (35 page)

In fact, Gel had been very tight-lipped about why she'd wanted to stay the night. Several times she thought she was about to say something, but each time Gel clammed up again, and she wasn't going to ask her. Let her come out with whatever was bothering her. But in the end all Gel did was make small talk the whole afternoon.

Geraldine lay beside Evie, listening to her sister's gentle breathing. Evie had been happy enough to see her even if Mum and Dad hadn't or made it seem that way.

After a tea of cheese on toast, a bit of cake left from what Mum had made last weekend, Dad having a proper dinner after working all day, Dad had gone and sat in his chair in front of the fire. Quite a decent fire as well as the one in the kitchen, Mum not short of coal at the moment with Dad unloading the stuff at the present time.

This family, like the families of most dockers, nearly always benefited from whatever hold the man was working in at the time: a handful of sugar in the paper bag his lunch had been in and stuffed under his cap; a couple of tins of fruit or a bit of meat at the bottom of his haversack; a pocket full of nails to mend a broken part of a pigeon loft, for lots of men in the East End kept pigeons for recreation; a short length of material torn from a broken bolt of cloth brought out wrapped around the stomach for the wife to make a dress out of. It all depended on what came off the boat. Not every time, for any man caught pilfering could lose his job and not get back so easily into dock work – it was a case of biding your time, watching out for whoever was on the gate, any alert one spotted from a distance and whatever you'd come by having to be ditched, or march through brazenly if you recognised the sloppy one lounging there. Worthwhile if you could make mates of some blokes on the gate too.

Geraldine knew the drill as good as any in her family. This week for the Glover family it was coal, brought out lump by lump wrapped in the old morning newspaper kept especially for the purpose; and Dad had made best use of it after tea, settling back in his wooden armchair, feet on the brass fender, nose in the evening paper, finally falling asleep, probably much needed after nigh on twelve hours of backbreaking unloading.

It had been quite nice around the tea table with Fred and Evie there, Mum doing the rounds of family news: Mavis's three children; Clara's baby; Granny Glover not doing too good these days, getting old; Uncle Bert hadn't been too well, chest trouble of some sort; Aunt Jess with a terrible cold she couldn't shake off and it being so early to get colds, what would she do if it was still there come wintertime? Young Fred doing well at the
News Chronicle
newspaper; Evie still working behind the counter at the Co-op and promoted to the dairy counter where she was learning how to work butter into pats for customers, quite a skilled job. Mum had finally dried up, not seeming to want to hear anything Geraldine had to say.

Thankfully young Fred had taken up the subject of his work, how much he was liked there, how he had high hopes of promotion, advised to go off to night school a couple of nights a week learning journalism, shorthand and train to be a reporter one day. ‘Get all the best scoops,' he vowed, ‘and see me name there at the top of what I write.'

Evie too had been relatively loquacious, talking about her current boyfriend, Stephen, with whom she had been going out for several months now. But after tea she had left to go and meet him while Fred had gone off to meet his mates. That was when the conversation had tailed off until Dad, retiring to his chair having said little around the table, had fallen asleep and Mum had got on with some darning leaving Geraldine to stare into the fire.

She had wanted to confide in Mum about Tony and the warning Kate Meyrick had given her regarding the possibility of his getting in too deep with those he hung around with and which was beginning to worry her no end.

But how to confide her worries to Mum? As poor as she and Dad were, as much as there were shady types, vicious characters, dark dealings in the alleyways of the East End, they were themselves above board, apart maybe from Dad helping himself down at the docks occasionally, which everyone did if the coast looked clear. They knew nothing of this much darker side of life in the sort of society Tony had got himself in with; from what reached her ears now and again, there was far more evil than even the odd murder reported in this deprived area, for much of what went in the West End was big time – the crooked gambling with high stakes that went on in clubs like the ‘43', vicious deals concerning drugs, extortion, protection, big names involved, which often the police would miss even when raiding nightclubs, maybe bribed, who knows. And Tony, a tiny cog in that huge evil wheel, could be one of those who would get caught one day.

She'd never told anyone except Alan where his money came from. The fewer who knew, the safer it was, and besides it would give the impression he was thoroughly dishonest. He wasn't dishonest. Those who brought the stolen goods to him were. All he did was give a service. True, one by which he made good money. He'd formed friendships with some of them, got invited out by them, and yes, maybe he did other deals with them, but what they were she didn't know and he wouldn't tell her.

It was hard to tell who was crooked and who wasn't among his friends – nice people many of them, polite people, people who drew her into their circle with open hearts: people like Samual Treater, Sam; Ernest Bulwalk, known as Ernie; William Schulter; and a man called ‘Fruity' Hicks, seldom seen without an apple or a banana or a pear he'd be eating. They treated her as if she were someone of importance; their wives too, Lily, Cynthia, Dolly, Dotty and lots of others. There was also Kate who'd warned her of some danger to Tony. With no husband, she flirted with every one of the men, dowdy though she was, with her warm smile. And there was Di Manners who had more or less come on the scene since that first meeting in Egypt. She was usually escorted by a very thin young man called Jimmy, but didn't seem particularly fond of him though he hung upon her dazzling smile.

All this Geraldine thought on as she lay beside her sister. Evie hadn't been too pleased coming home to find she was to share her bed, Geraldine's old bed long since got rid of to make the tiny bedroom roomier for the one girl left in the house.

Made to feel awkward by her sister's lengthened face at the news of having to share her bed, Mum's lack of conversation during the evening, and being more or less ignored by Dad, she finally burst out on impulse that it might be better if she went home after all. Mum had looked at her as though she'd committed some sort of offence.

‘But yer've asked if yer can stay, and I said it was orright. So why change yer mind? It's raining cats and dogs out there, can't you 'ere it?' Beyond the drawn brown curtains rain was pattering on the windowpane like something gone mad. ‘Yer'd get soaked findin' a taxi. One ain't goin' ter be waiting outside the door for yer. Yer'll 'ave ter walk all the way to a main road and even then there mightn't be one this time of night. We ain't the West End, yer know. Don't be so blessed silly. Yer'll 'ave ter stay 'ere now.'

That last was said as if it was begrudged, they'd just have to put up with her. She'd capitulated, and so here she was, lying here, the rain now ceased, and going over all sorts of thoughts and wishing she was back home in Tony's arms, perhaps confiding her worries to him, with him comforting her.

It was as though last night's rain had washed the world clean. Though cold, everything had a polished look about it, positively glittering in the early morning sunshine as Geraldine walked towards the main road, looking to catch a bus home if there were no taxis around. If only she felt as bright and cheerful as this morning was.

She'd got up early. Not right to stay in bed once Evie was up, getting ready to leave for work at eight-fifteen. Besides, she'd had no wish to stay there any longer than need be. In the kitchen, Evie refused even a bite of toast, keeping herself slim, her bra-flattened breasts even flatter in her present quest for the boyish craze, and cheerfully moaned on about another boring day working her insides out. Serving behind a counter even if it meant having to spend hours on her feet couldn't be all that grinding, Geraldine thought.

Fred, who had devoured his couple of pieces of toast and jam almost before Mum had time to spread the margarine on them, hadn't been able to wait to get out of the house and off to work, loving his job, calling a careless ‘bye' as he went off to join the flood already making their way to work, banging the door behind him.

Dad had left the house while still dark outside, needing to be with his gang early although his work was more steady with a proper company, Slaters. Now she and Mum were alone.

‘So what was the reason fer you coming 'ere yesterday?' Mum had asked, making toast for the two of them. ‘You and 'im ain't 'ad a row, 'ave yer?' She seldom referred to Tony by name. It was always ‘'im'. Geraldine had ignored the reference.

‘No. I just wanted to see you for a bit longer than I usually do.'

It was all she could think to say. Mum had given one of her humphs.

‘And I can't say that ter be all that often either!' Then perhaps to compensate for sounding a little too sharp, she'd added rather more gently, ‘I know yer didn't 'ave a chance ter say much last night with all us lot here, but is there somethink worrying yer? Yer can tell me now we're on our own and quiet like.'

So Mum did have some feelings for her, was concerned, wanted to help, advise. It sent a warm glow through her even now as she made her way towards Grove Road. Even then she hadn't been able to bring herself to say what had been on her mind. It had been there trembling on the edge of her breath but her throat had closed against it, refusing to let the words pass and she had merely repeated her earlier excuse, that she thought she'd pay them all a visit and had thought staying a bit longer would be nice.

Now it weighed all the more heavily on her for it had remained unsaid. There was no one she could talk to, not even Kate Meyrick, for despite her covert warning that they were all tarred with the same brush, she would regard her with amusement and shrug it all off. A deep, amorphous fear still gripped, unrelieved, persistent and overwhelming.

She was in Grove Road, passing the shop Tony had once had, now a tobacconist's. Memories assailed her – the first time she'd met him, the flurry of excitement when he'd first looked at her, when he'd asked her out, that pleasurable warmth when he'd proposed. Where had it gone wrong, if indeed it had? More likely it was her, with no cause to worry where the next penny was coming from, whether she'd always have a roof over her head, it seemed she had to have something to worry about, building up imagined fears.

She passed the shop, head down to avoid looking at it. But the corner of her eye caught a familiar figure coming out of it and halted her.

‘Alan?' She was conscious of a wave of relief washing through her body as his name burst from her lips.

He looked up from stuffing a new packet of cigarettes into his jacket pocket, and seeing her, his mouth broke into a wide smile. ‘Gerry!'

Quickly he wended his way towards her between passers-by. ‘Fancy seeing you! What you doing here this time of morning?'

‘I stayed at Mum's last night,' she offered over the noise of people.

‘Stayed? What, you and Tony?' He glanced up and down the busy street for him, the gesture portraying surprise, instantly assuming something in the Glover family must be amiss, needing both their presence at a time other than Christmas. Geraldine hastened to put his mind at rest.

‘I went there on my own actually.'

She was conscious of that stupid word
actually
, tending to use it casually and often as the people she knew did. She hurried on before Alan could enquire further. ‘I felt like a bit of a break. Me and Tony's been going out such a lot lately and he's so busy, I just felt like it. You know, a bit of a break, sort of?'

She was now consciously toning down that affected accent. The last thing she wanted was to put Alan at a disadvantage, though it seemed to her his speech had improved, or was it because he was talking to her? Though he'd never watched his speech before when with her.

Maybe she'd been talking too fast. Maybe something in her tone had arrested his attention. He was scrutinising her from under his brows, the gaze questioning, a discerning gaze. ‘Is everythink all right, Gerry?'

Foolish tears began to flood her eyes. Unbidden, they stemmed solely from the way he'd said it, the words so tenderly spoken that they flowed like gentle water all about her.

‘No, Alan.' Her throat constricted but the need to unburden herself proved stronger, issuing from her in a trembling sob, altering the tone of her voice, lowering it, strangling it. ‘Everything ain't all right.'

His hand was on her arm. ‘Not here. Let's go across the road fer a cup of tea, and if you want, you can tell me about it – only if you want.'

She didn't reply but allowed herself to be conducted across the road, he watching out for the morning traffic, cars and vans mixed up with horse-drawn wagons, milk carts, bread carts, bicycles.

By comparison the café was quiet, no one wanting yet to eat or drink. By dinner time it would be full up, but now was empty apart from an elderly woman in one corner with fingers in ragged mittens clasped around a sturdy mug of tea.

Geraldine watched her in her worn coat and shapeless hat, threadbare mittens, old boots and scrap of a scarf about her neck as Alan went to get their tea. What right had she to be miserable and in fear when people like this could only seek solace in a mug of tea, just as she was about to? But for them this was all they had, a mug of tea bought with a coin that had been tossed at them and a forlorn hope of any sort of roof over their head on a freezing, foggy or rain-soaked night.