The Fifteen Streets Read online

  ‘Goodbye, Father.’ ‘Goodbye, Father,’ they said, and continued their way up the Simonside bank, past the little school and into what was termed the country, a few fields with hedged lanes between. If you didn’t turn round and look back you could imagine there were no docks, no pits, no drab grey streets; and if you could stretch your imagination you could visualise these fields with their straight rows of tender green going on for ever.

  ‘Shall we walk to the Robin Hood?’ Katie asked.

  ‘It’ll be too far for you,’ said John.

  ‘No, it won’t. I could walk miles and miles.’

  She skipped on ahead of him, leaving him with his thoughts—thoughts of the priest; of this lonely feeling; and of the lass next door. His mind dwelt on the lass: Would he like to take her out? Good God! he’d never have the nerve to ask the likes of her, even if she were free—she was different somehow . . . Then why was she living next door? . . . There was no answer to this. And Dominic, he wouldn’t be backward in asking her. But no! surely he wouldn’t have the cheek, the state he was in with drink, and that woman. Yet why did he go out and give them a hand? It wasn’t with any idea of helping, but to speak to the lass . . . Anyway, why was he thinking about all these things that didn’t matter a damn! Hadn’t he other things to think about? His mother in her trouble; and the house with hardly a whole stick standing.

  But the sun and the wind were changing his mood—he didn’t want to think, he only wanted to wander here in this quiet road.

  He took off his cap and let the wind play through his hair. He ran his hand through it, and felt the freedom of being uncovered out of doors. It was such a relief to walk with his cap off, and no-one would see him here so it didn’t matter, for it was another unwritten law that a woman did not go out without a hat or a shawl covering her head, nor a man a cap.

  Katie came running back to him, exclaiming, ‘Oh, John, your hair looks just like Miss Llewellyn’s with the sun shining on it! It’s all brown and shiny.’

  ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘Miss—Don’t be silly.’ He ruffled it more.

  ‘It is though.’

  ‘Go on with you!’ He took her hand and pulled her to his side, and they walked on until they came within sight of the Robin Hood, then turned towards Simonside again. Katie sang hymns, school songs, and rhymes, one following on the other without pause, while John walked along in strange contentment, listening to her.

  They were nearing the top of the bank, where it dipped to the docks, when her singing ended abruptly and he felt her hand tugging on his. He looked down on her upturned face. It was alight with pleased surprise—her eyes were wide, sending him a mute message. Wondering, he followed her gaze, and saw a woman coming towards them, a young woman. She was taller than average, and wore a brown cloth coat with a full skirt. It was nipped in at the waist and gave emphasis to her bust. She carried her head high, and her hat, which was green and had a brown feather curling round its brim, appeared like a crown set on the top of her head.

  As she came nearer, John became aware of her hair. It fell over her ears in soft folds, and when he noticed the colour, he connected it with Katie’s excitement and thrust his cap on his head. Good God! Miss Llewellyn—and she not much more than a lass. And he’d thought she was getting on . . . well, in her thirties. She was looking directly at Katie and smiling.

  He looked beyond her, but to his horror she stopped as she came abreast of them and said, ‘Hallo, Katie.’

  ‘Hallo, Miss Llewellyn.’

  John felt Katie’s fingers opening and shutting within his palm.

  ‘You are a long way from home.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Llewellyn.’ Katie was breathless.

  John gave a sidelong glance at the bent head—he could dare this because she wasn’t looking at him. He had never before been so close to such a face. Katie said she was lovely. Katie wasn’t far wrong. The skin of her cheeks was a soft, creamy pink, the nose was short, and in striking contrast the mouth was wide and laughing.

  When she turned her eyes on him, he switched his away; and he fumbled in the pocket of his coat for his red handkerchief as she said, ‘You’re John, aren’t you?’

  He felt his eyes forced back to her, to look her full in the face, and for no reason he could understand he began to tremble inside—almost, he felt, like the jerking of his father’s limbs, only invisible. He was painfully conscious of the cap on his tousled hair, of his dirty raincoat, of his neckerchief, and of his big boots, with their leather laces showing numerous knots. His Adam’s apple moved swiftly, and he swallowed, but no words came.

  And she went on, ‘I’ve heard such a lot about you.’

  Her voice, too, was like none he had heard before. Like her face, there was laughter playing around it. Was she laughing at him? Very likely.

  He knew she was, and though he felt it was kindly laughter the hot colour flooded his face when she said, ‘I don’t suppose you know, but you are a combination of Prince Charming and God to a certain young lady.’

  He thought quickly, as he found himself doing at times, and spoke before he could stop himself: ‘Neither of them would be flattered. And if the last one hears of it there’s not much chance of me getting up there.’

  Her laugh rang out, joyous and infectious, and to his utter surprise he found himself laughing with her.

  Katie stood looking up from one to the other. She did not join in with their laughter, her happiness was too profound—Miss Llewellyn laughing with their John!

  When he thought of it later, he was surprised at her next remark—and her a Catholic and a teacher too—for she said, ‘I don’t suppose that will worry you very much. I should take the heaven you’re sure of.’ Her words seemed to confuse her slightly and the tinge of pink grew deeper in her cheeks.

  He made no answer, thinking that if this life was her idea of heaven he’d bet on the one up there. The wind swirled about them, and she turned her back to it, leaning slightly back and holding her hat on with both hands. Then she terminated the meeting by saying, ‘Well, I’ll see you on Monday morning, Katie,’ and to John, ‘I’m glad I’ve met you in the flesh, for now when I listen to your sayings being recorded I’ll be able to place them. Goodbye. Goodbye, Katie.’

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Llewellyn.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ John did not turn immediately away, but watched her bending against the wind, the coat pressed against her legs. And he saw that she wore shoes and that her ankles were thin. He turned away, and Katie, walking close by his side, sighed. They looked at each other and smiled secretly, then walked on in silence, until John asked, ‘You don’t tell her all I say, do you?’

  ‘No. Oh, no!’ Katie lied firmly. And in the next breath she exclaimed, ‘Isn’t she lovely!’

  He stopped and looked towards the docks, and Katie went on, ‘And isn’t it a lovely day!’

  ‘Grand.’ The word seemed to answer both her questions.

  Far away in the distance he could see the masts of the ships, disembodied things, seemingly borne on air. He looked up at the sun, and for the first time in his life felt glad to be out and under it. He thought of the lass next door and of the lovely lass just gone, and he said, more to himself than to Katie, ‘Yes, it’s a lovely day; a day of clean wind and far mast-heads, and bonnie lasses.’

  Katie stared up at him. Oh, their John was wonderful, the things he said! A day of clean wind and far mast-heads, and bonnie lasses! It was like . . . well, not like the poetry she learnt at school . . . and yet it was. Oh, and Miss Llewellyn had seen him! She had seen how wonderful he was.

  Mary Llewellyn, walking briskly away in the opposite direction, was smiling no longer. Her face was thoughtful, and her eyes sad. So that was John. Poor soul! Poor soul!

  3

  St Patrick’s Day

  Mick led the Catholics, not because he was the eldest but because he was the biggest. At the top corner of Fadden and Blacket Streets he marshalled his gang, twenty-five in all, and saw that they were supplied with
weapons. He made sure that the innocent-looking paper balls dangling from lengths of rope or string each had a good-sized stone in its centre. About twenty yards away, at the corner of Whitley Street, the Protestants were gathering, and their leaders were doing much the same as Mick. This was to be the climax to the day’s badgering and cornering of individuals and isolated groups, of swinging the paper balls round the heads of victims, whether Catholic or Protestant, and asking the terrifying question, ‘Are you blue or green?’ Pity help the individual who had the courage to defend his colour to the opposite clan, for he was often hit until he was sick or rescued by some indignant passer-by.

  Mick’s gang were protesting loudly that it wasn’t fair, for the ranters had three separate gangs—the churchies, the chapelies, and the odds, the latter group consisting of Jews, Salvationists, and a Quaker.

  Mick exclaimed loudly that three lots were nowt, for they’d bash all their bleeding heads in. Adroitly he spread out his men in the form of an arrow, placing the bigger boys at the head.

  He took a long time over this, for he was enjoying his momentary power and the admiration of the younger children swarming on the top of the stackyard wall that hemmed in the ends of the fifteen streets.

  Someone began to sing the hymn:

  ‘Oh glorious St Patrick, dear Saint of our Isle,’

  and all the children on the wall took it up:

  ‘On us, thy dear children, bestow a sweet smile;

  And now thou art high in the mansions above,

  Oh glorious St Patrick look down in thy love.’

  The ending was the signal for the advance, both sides moving slowly towards each other. Then, with a rush, there was a swirling of balls, and there were screams and cries of ‘Long live Ireland!’ ‘Up the shamrock!’ in which were mingled ‘England for ever!’ and ‘God save the King!’

  Hard blows were struck by the arrow heads. But they had learned no lesson from last year; so their balls became entwined, and many combatants had to stop and free them, and whilst doing so a number of them laughed, especially if their enemy happened to be a pal on the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. And so the fight became spasmodic, lacking the ferocity of the earlier battles; it became a mêlée of half-hearted punches and pushes. And the jeering from the mixed supporters on the wall became derisive.

  Mick realised there was something lacking. He fell back with his side and engaged in a battle of vituperation!

  ‘Protestant, Protestant, you dirty lot,

  Yer backside’s blue and yer nose all snot!’

  to which the Protestants replied:

  ‘Catholic, Catholic, ring the bell,

  When you die you’ll go to hell.’

  It was all very half-hearted—the excitement seemed to have died in the completion of the preparations.

  Mick felt a definite sense of disappointment and feared the flatness of the fight might be put down to his leadership, and that Big Geordie Flannagan might be picked to take his place. He looked round for some sign that would be the means of leading him to fresh applause. And like manna from heaven he found it. Standing solitary at the top end of his own back lane was the boy from next door . . . the spook’s lad.

  The boy was looking from one group to the other with evident curiosity. His face looked all eyes, and Mick was quick to detect a gleam of fear in them. With the true instinct of a leader, he first of all planned to cut off the enemy’s retreat. So he called three of his best men to him, and in a few words told them what he intended doing, and despatched them down Fadden Street with orders to come up the back lane. A few more whispered words to other members of his gang, and they stopped yelling and stood looking towards the boy.

  As soon as Mick saw the three outriders coming up the back lane he called out loudly, ‘Look! There’s the spook!’

  After a moment’s hesitation the word was taken up, ‘The spook! The spook!’ Those on the other side stopped their abuse and they too turned towards the boy, whose face had blanched. He did not turn and try to escape down the back lane, for he knew, from the laughs behind him, that that escape was cut off. Instead he tried to think of what his grandfather had told him to do when confronted with hostile thought, but terror swamped any thinking.

  Fascinated, he watched the two opposing sides converging on each other and the children swarming down from the wall. They began to form a solid mass before him, and he listened to shouts that weren’t new to his ears:

  ‘His da’s a spook!’

  ‘Me ma says he’s a divil.’

  ‘Me ma says if you bless yersel’ when you pass him he can’t do you any harm.’

  ‘Me da says the priest put a curse on him an’ he was kicked out of Jarrer, an’ he’ll wither away.’

  ‘Mr Roberts, our minister, says they’re evil and we mustn’t have any truck with ’em.’

  On and on it went, not loudly or angrily, but steadily and defiantly, and in some faint way the boy detected fear of himself in their voices. Yet he knew what that fear would make them do. It wasn’t the first time he had been in a similar situation, but he found that repetition did not make him more brave.

  Mick too was aware of the fear. The crowd of them would do nothing, he thought, just call the spook names and perhaps throw a stone or two, until some woman came out from her backyard and scattered the lot of them. He wanted a chase, some life in the proceedings.

  Again he gave instructions to others of his gang, who sped away to block the ends of the streets, all but the last one. Then he yelled out to the crowd, proclaiming himself leader and a man of fair play, ‘Give him a chance . . . Let him away! Give him a start!’

  Molly, who was standing near him, whispered, ‘Where you goner chase him?’

  ‘The gut,’ he whispered back without looking at her, for his eyes were now fixed on those of the boy.

  The boy was shivering in stark terror; he knew what this chance meant; it meant running, running, running until his whole body sobbed and his trousers became wet. And he knew that long after the fear would have passed the feeling of his wet trousers would remain. But it was either running or being stoned here.

  A gap appeared in the crowd and Mick’s voice yelled, ‘Come on, spooky! We’ll give you a start.’ He was leading them all now, the Catholics, the Protestants, the Chapelies and the others. He kept yelling, ‘Let him through! . . . Come on, spook. We’ll give you ten for a start when you’re through.’

  There was a whirling in Mick’s blood when he saw the boy begin to move, and a stream of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth. The boy, his face the colour of dirty dough and his eyes stretching the skin, came abreast of Mick. He would never reach the gut, Mick thought—he was too small. They would drag him there.

  Suddenly he threw his arms out wide, a signal that no-one must move and shouted, ‘One!’

  At the sound the boy became galvanised. He shot away, and Mick, when he noted the speed with which the boy ran, quickened his counting, almost choking with suppressed glee when he saw the boy’s maddened terror on realising the exits of the streets and back lanes were blocked.

  ‘Ten!’ was a scream in Mick’s throat. He was off, ahead of the milling, screeching children. They stumbled into each other, kicking and pushing to get a clear road. Some left the main chase and ran down the streets, knowing that this would be the quickest way and that they would pick up the chase again on the main road, the word had been passed, ‘To the gut! To the gut!’

  Among those who diverted was Molly. She sped down her own street, her hair and legs flying. And she almost cried with vexation when she saw her mother step from their front door.

  ‘Here!’ Mary Ellen caught at Molly’s arm, almost unbalancing herself. ‘Have you gone mad? What’s all the screeching for?’

  ‘Aw! Ma, let go.’

  ‘Get inside!’ said Mary Ellen.

  ‘Aw! Ma, I’m goin’ with our Mick.’

  ‘With Mick? What’s he doin’?’

  ‘He’s . . . he’
s . . . They’re chasin’ the lad next door to the gut.’

  Mary Ellen brought her hand across her daughter’s ear with a crack. ‘Get yersel’ inside—I’ll gut you! A big lass like you running mad with a lot of lads!’ She pushed Molly before her through the front room, calling, ‘John!’

  John came out of the bedroom asking, ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s our Mick . . . he’s chasing the lad next door to the gut. There’s dozens of them running mad!’

  ‘Are you sure it’s Mick?’

  ‘Ask her.’ Mary Ellen pointed to the snivelling Molly.

  When John looked at Molly she hung her head, and Mary Ellen said, ‘Go and see what he’s up to, lad; for if the pollis catches him at anything down there they won’t give him another chance, after catching him loosening the timbers that time.’

  ‘Why are they chasing the lad next door, are they playing at something?’ John asked Molly.

  ‘No,’ Molly muttered into her chest. ‘It’s because he’s a spook.’

  John hastily put on his coat and left the house; and as he went out into the back lane he bumped into the girl from next door. She was running, and gasped, ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled faintly at him and ran on again.

  He did not speak, but hurried after her. He guessed where she was going . . . someone must have told her. Children were straggled along the road; most of them, frightened by the thought of the gut, especially as it was getting dark, had given up the chase.

  One bold spirit addressed John: ‘Your Mick’s goin’ to push the spook into the gut, Mr O’Brien.’

  John knew that between Mick and Dominic there was only the difference in years; the cruelty was already fully matured in Mick, and he was quite capable of doing what this boy said. He set off at a run and caught up with the girl before she reached the short cut leading to the gut. Shortening his step to suit hers, he said, ‘Are you looking for your brother?’

  She nodded, but did not speak; and John again had the impression of age. There was a similarity, he noticed, between her expression and that which was more often than not on his mother’s face . . . This wasn’t the first time she’d gone to her brother’s aid—by God, he’d break that young rat’s neck!