Chrissie's Children (29 page)

There were few people in the sitting-room at the back of the Frigate and Helen said quickly, ‘There he is.’ She led Matt across the room to a little round table. The man sitting
there stood up as they approached, and Helen introduced them. ‘Hullo, Dick. This is Matt Ballantyne. Matt, this is Dick Webster.’

Dick was lean and thin faced, burned brown by the sun. He held out his left hand – the right was wrapped in a white bandage. He waved it with a sardonic grin. ‘Souvenir of sunny
Spain. It’s good as new but still a bit tender so I don’t want it mangled.’

They all sat down around the table and Matt ordered a round of drinks from the barmaid waiting on in the back room. Then Dick Webster explained how he had gone to fight in Spain with the
International Brigade, been wounded and then met Helen’s father and brother. ‘There was a crowd of us wounded being repatriated, waiting in this station for a train. Another one came in
filled with a regiment going up the line. Your dad and brother were on it. They looked pretty fit. We got talking because they were just about the only ones on that train who knew any English. When
they heard I was coming back to this part of the world for some leave they asked me to look you up.’

Helen asked, ‘They hadn’t been hurt, then?’

Webster shook his head. ‘Not a scratch.’ Then he apologised. ‘Sorry it took me so long to get to you but I was given the job of trying to recruit a few men – sort of
paying for my passage home – so I’ve spent the last three weeks travelling about the country talking to anybody who would listen.’ He grimaced. ‘Not with much success
though.’

Helen sat back, relieved but still worried, and sipped a little of her lemonade. Matt asked the soldier, ‘Did you say “leave”?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re going back, then?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

Webster had answered the question before and did so now without hesitation. ‘Because I believe Franco should be stopped. Because two other dictators, Hitler and Mussolini, are supporting
him and using the war to try out tactics and armaments. Because I think we will be at war with Hitler one of these days.’ Matt had heard this from his father and refused to accept it but now
he sat silent and thoughtful.

Helen didn’t care about politics. She asked, trying to imagine a picture into which she could fit her father and brother, ‘What is it like out there?’

Webster said cautiously, not wanting to upset her, ‘Well, it’s a war. Fighting now and again, some people hurt or killed, but a lot of the time it’s boring and all the time
it’s dirty.’

‘What was it like when you were wounded?’

Webster shifted awkwardly, not ready for that question. ‘Not funny. I was hit by shrapnel. That hurt like hell but the worst part was having to wait God knows how long for an ambulance to
take me back to a dressing station and another long wait before anybody had time to see to me. They’re very short handed in that line.’

Matt said, mildly curious, ‘I’ve never been to Spain. Is it summer there now?’

Webster grinned and relaxed. ‘No, but it’s warmer . . .’

They talked about the country and its people and culture for some time. It was only when the conversation ran out that Helen suddenly said into the silence, ‘You said you were
recruiting.’

‘That’s right,’ and Webster joked, jerking a thumb towards Matt, ‘Is that why you brought him along?’

Helen did not laugh. ‘Will you take me? I’m a nurse.’

The two men stared at her, then Matt exploded, ‘That’s silly!’

Webster countered, ‘No, it isn’t. They could use her.’ He addressed Helen: ‘You should think hard about it, though. It wouldn’t be like a hospital here, it might
not be a proper hospital at all. I don’t know what you would be paid or even if you would be—’

Helen broke in then, ‘I want to go. My father and brother are out there.’

Webster pointed out, ‘You probably wouldn’t be anywhere near them, would never see them.’

‘I know that, but if anything happened to them, if they were hurt and not properly looked after, then I would never forgive myself for not
trying
to be there. Take me.’

Matt, fearing for her, fearing he was going to lose her, argued, ‘You can’t go out there! You need a passport, a visa—’

Webster cut in, ‘I can fix that. There’s a Spanish ship in the Tyne. I’m joining her tomorrow night and taking a couple of dozen lads with me. They’ve all got passports
but I reckon the skipper will take another passenger on the quiet for me.’

Matt said again, helplessly, ‘You can’t go out there on your own.’ And so the argument went on.

He returned home at the end of the evening, plodding through the rain with shoulders hunched. The lit windows of the house did nothing to cheer him. He found his parents in the sitting-room and
told them with forced brightness, ‘I’m off tomorrow. Mr Younger has asked me to go to Darlington again.’ They discussed arrangements, his mother ticking off on her fingers what
she would pack for him and promising, ‘I’ll give you a lift as far as the station with your case.’

Matt said, ‘I’m going from the garage.’

Chrissie shrugged. ‘They’re giving you a lift through, then. All right, I’ll drop you there.’

His father said, ‘It’s not the career I had in mind for you but if that is what you want more than anything . . .’ He stopped there, hoping for a denial, a change of heart.

But Matt said, ‘This is what I want to do.’

Chrissie was just glad he had a job and an aim in life, however transient.

Matt hardly slept at all and when he kissed his mother as she set him down at Younger’s garage he could have wept. He trudged in carrying his suitcase, handed in his notice to George
Younger and a letter to a mechanic he had worked with, asking him, ‘Will you post this on Friday for me?’

Then he jumped on a tram that took him to the station and caught a train to Newcastle.

May 1938

The big hands reached out of the alley close by the shipyard gate and grabbed Tom by the lapels of his jacket. They yanked him out of the crowd of men pouring from the yard
then hauled him around and banged him against the wall. One or two of the hurrying men stared but went on their way, minding their own business. If two young chaps had a fight that was up to them
and common enough. Tom gasped with the shock of it and then began to fight, but even as he pulled back his fist, Dagger, big in overalls that strained across his wide chest, appealed, ‘Hang
on! I’m not starting owt!’ He let go of the jacket and stepped back, then complained, I’ve had a hell of a job finding you. I’ve waited outside of here all this week and
never seen you.’

Tom had worked late every night until now, but he decided that was none of Dagger’s business, and kept his fists up. I’ve had enough of you. What do you want, anyway?’ he
demanded.

Now Dagger looked uncomfortable. He said, ‘Dolly came to see me and told me all about it. The bairn she’s having isn’t yours. It was her mother’s idea to say it was. Mrs
Simmons doesn’t think much o’ me ’cause she knew I would get the sack as soon as I finished me time.’ That happened to lots of youths when they completed their
apprenticeships, there being no work for them and the employers unable to keep them on at a man’s wage. ‘Dolly’s ma thought if she saddled you wi’ it the least she would get
was a tidy sum to keep her quiet.’

Dagger shook his head and muttered, ‘Old bitch.’ Then he went on, ‘But as I said, it’s not yours; it’s mine.’ He tapped that wide chest with a thick finger.
‘I’m the father. And me and Dolly are getting married. I got the sack like Ma Simmons expected but I’ve got a job down south now. Me and Dolly are getting married and that’s
where we’re going, where that old bitch can’t get at us and make trouble.’

He relaxed, at ease now he had had his say. ‘So I just wanted to let you know and say I was sorry about that night I got hold o’ you. I’d just got the wrong end o’ the
stick, that’s all.’ He held out his hand.

Tom shook it. ‘Congratulations and best wishes. I hope the two of you will be very happy.’

Dagger grinned. ‘I think me and Dolly will be all right. I’ve got what I want and I won’t let old Ma Simmons nor anybody else spoil it for me. Happy? I’m happy
now.’

So was Tom, and he whistled all the way back to his new lodgings.

The next Saturday he loitered in the foyer of the Ballantyne Hotel for almost two hours before he could meet Sarah Tennant and say with feigned surprise, ‘Hello! On your way
out?’

Sarah smiled up at him, genuinely surprised and shy. ‘I was just going for a walk.’

‘So am I. Thought I’d stretch my legs. I’ll keep you company.’ Tom offered his arm and Sarah took it. Chrissie came out of her office just too late to see them go.

She was leaving early but only to go on to Ballantyne’s yard where Jack was working in his office. He was clearing his desk before leaving on the sleeper that night, on his way to Holland
to try to find a buyer for the
White Elephant
, the unfinished tanker still on the stocks. Chrissie took a picnic meal with her in the Ford and they ate it sitting at Jack’s desk. Then
she helped him finish his paperwork as night fell.

Jack sat back in his chair, stretched his long arms and said, ‘That’s the lot.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘There’s not long before my train goes. Just time to go
home and pick up my case.’ He was silent a moment, watching Chrissie as she shuffled the last sheaf of papers into neat order. She stopped, smiling at him, and the coals burning in the big
fireplace settled, crunching and firing sparks up the chimney. Jack said softly, ‘I wish I wasn’t going.’

Jack and Chrissie drove home to collect Jack’s case. The house appeared empty because the staff had long since gone off duty and none of the children was at home. ‘Look at the
time!’ Chrissie said. ‘I’ll drive you to the station.’ As they passed through the hall, she saw a letter lying on the small table there. She picked it up and slipped it into
the pocket of her coat and ran out to the car. Jack caught his train but only just, running down the stairs to the platform as the doors banged shut, jumping aboard as the guard’s whistle
shrilled. Chrissie only had time to kiss him and say breathlessly, ‘Take care and good luck.’ Then he was carried away and she was left alone.

She had parked the Ford outside the station and as she came up from the platform she decided to look in at the hotel. Pushing through the swing doors she remembered the letter and took it out.
It was only then that she saw it was addressed to ‘Mr & Mrs Ballantyne’ and the writing was Matt’s. She ripped open the envelope as she crossed the foyer and took out the
sheet inside. Then she began to read and stopped dead at the door to her office. She whispered, ‘Oh my God!’

Chrissie read the letter from her son again and again, not wanting to believe its message but slowly accepting. When she looked up she saw Tom and Sarah Tennant come in through the swing doors.
They were laughing together and looking into each other’s eyes. Even in her anguish she could see there was something between them.

Chrissie got a message to Jack aboard the packet bound for Holland before it sailed from Hull, and he telephoned her from a box on the quayside. She sat at her desk in the
silent and darkened hotel, just one light in the foyer and another above her head. She told him, ‘Matt has gone to Spain. He left us a letter. You remember Helen Diaz, Sophie’s friend?
She has gone to be a nurse out there and he says he couldn’t let her go alone.’ It was a good line and she heard Jack groan. In the background there was the clatter of a winch working
and the hooting of a distant siren. She thought, with an oddly detached part of her mind, that it might be the tug come to ease the packet from its berth.

Jack said, ‘I’ll get the next train home.’

‘No!’ Chrissie was firm about that. ‘You have to go on.’ They had to find a buyer for the tanker. Too many livelihoods hung on its sale. ‘He said they weren’t
travelling by conventional routes but going underground, so it would be no good our trying to stop him or even find him.’ Then she went on quickly before the inevitable explosion, ‘But
listen, Jack, don’t get the wrong impression. He’s not taunting or jeering. He says he’s sorry, he loves us . . .’ She scanned the letter again for those phrases that had
given her some consolation. ‘He says, “I had to go with Helen. I think if Dad was in my place, if you had set off for Spain, he would have been with you.” You see what I mean
Jack?’ Chrissie paused, listening. Another siren wailed on a different note, mournful, lost. She waited while the seconds dragged out.

Then Jack said, ‘He has a point. I have to go – she’s about to sail. Write to the Foreign Office and ask for their help. The first thing we have to do is find Matt and that
girl.’ The siren moaned again and he said, ‘I’ve got to hang up.’

‘Yes, go, my darling. And don’t worry. Matt will be all right.’ Then he was gone. She put down the telephone and thought miserably, Don’t worry? The first light was
showing through the cracks at the sides of the curtains. It was Sunday morning and she laid her head on her hands and prayed.

On Monday Tom returned to Newcastle, to his job and his new lodgings there. Sophie left with the Beaumont Band for a six-month-long tour of South Coast ballrooms, starting in Southampton. She
went disbelieving her luck and delighted, but worried for Matt and Helen. Chrissie would not hear of either changing their lives because of Matt’s leaving: ‘There’s nothing you
can do.’ Then she wondered what she herself could achieve. She wrote to the Foreign Office and they replied that they did not know the whereabouts of either Matt or Helen but they would
institute a search. Chrissie waited . . .

Sarah still worked at the club. One night she was washing glasses in the room behind the bar and paused to rest, leaning on the sink. The door leading to the passage was an
inch ajar and she heard the murmur of voices, but ignored them, her thoughts elsewhere with Tom Ballantyne. Then she caught the phrase: ‘You’ll get a fiver to fight him, double if you
win – same as before.’ She hesitated then stole over to the door, set her eye to the crack and peered out into the passage.