Free Trinidad Street by Patricia Burns Page B

Florrie decided, and pushed open the door. Nobody in Trinidad Street would even think of locking a front door. Ellen followed her in.
    The little house was quiet, the air stale and oppressive. The girls made their way through the little front parlour on tiptoe, subdued by the stillness. They pushed open the kitchen door and stood staring.
    The back door and the window were closed. Little Tommy was asleep in his pram. By the smell of him, he was dirty. Maisie was sitting at the table, with her back to them. Her head was in her hands and she made no sign that she had heard them. Nonplussed, the two girls looked at each other again.
    ‘Maisie?’ Florrie stepped forward. ‘Maisie? You all right?’
    No answer. Ellen went to one side of her, Florrie the other. They both put an arm round her shoulders, but whatever they said to her, they got little reaction. In the end they gave up, simply asking if they could take Tommy out. This Maisie did agree to.
    The two girls manoeuvred the pram and the sleeping baby out into the street.
    ‘What’s up with her, then?’ Granny Hobbs asked, with a nod of the head to indicate Maisie.
    ‘Nothing,’ Florrie lied loyally.
    ‘She’s just tired. Wants a rest,’ Ellen elaborated. She turned to Florrie. ‘Let’s take him for a walk. We could go down the river.’
    They marched the length of the street, defying the curious stares, but as they reached the West Ferry Road, Florrie rounded on Ellen.
    ‘It’s all your Will’s fault.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You heard. It’s all your Will’s fault. Everyone’s talking about it. Poor Maisie can’t hold her head up.’
    ‘Florrie! I thought we was friends.’
    ‘I can’t be friends with someone whose brother treats my sister like that.’
    ‘She ought to tidy herself up a bit.’
    They were still arguing when Harry found them.
    ‘What’s all this about, then?’
    They both looked up, surprised into momentary silence. Ellen’s insides gave a funny twist, making her feel almost sick. Harry was straight in from work and he smelt of boats, a combination of tar and bilgewater and old rope. His face and neck and forearms were tanned, and his hair where it curled out from under his cap was bleached almost blond from the sun.
    ‘Well?’ he asked.
    ‘It’s our Maisie,’ Florrie blurted out. ‘You should see her, Harry! She’s been crying and she don’t want to do nothing.’
    ‘Where’s Will?’
    ‘Gone up Poplar to the Harp of Erin.’
    ‘Ah.’ Anger filled his face, hardening his eyes.
    A chilling fear took hold of Ellen. ‘Harry, it’s not –’
    ‘Not what? Not what I think? ’Course it is. Why else’d he be up there? I saw him the night we first went over. Couldn’t keep his eyes off of her, he couldn’t. Well, not any longer. I’m putting a stop to this.’
    ‘Oh, Harry, Will don’t mean it, I’m sure he don’t. Leave it be, please. We don’t want no trouble.’ She clutched at his sleeve, pleading, but he shook her off.
    ‘Look here, kid.’ He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes, trying to make her see his point of view. ‘There’s trouble already, and I’m going to put a stop to it. I like you, I like your family. You’re all right. But nobody treats my sister like that and gets away with it, see?’
    Ellen nodded. She knew there was nothing she could do. Events had to take their course. She stood miserably watching Harry turn the corner into Trinidad Street. Tommy woke up and began to cry. Florrie grasped the handle of the pram.
    ‘I’m going to take him back and change him,’ she said, and flounced off after her brother. Ellen followed slowly.
    The whole street seemed to know that something was up. Nobody said anything, but the air was charged with expectancy. Twilight faded imperceptibly into night, children were called in and sent to bed, kitchen chairs were fetched inside, but still some of the women hung about on the doorsteps, waiting for something to happen.
    Upstairs in the back