Chrissie's Children Read Free Page B

the warning to him to be careful. Jack had drummed that into him over the years, but a reminder did no harm. And Tom would not be kept out of the yard, that had always been
clear. The same could not be said of Matt, unfortunately . . .
    A frown creased Jack’s brow for an instant, but then he was turning the Ford in at the big, open gates of the Ballantyne yard and the frown faded as he felt the surge of pride that always
came over him as he entered. His great-grandfather had started the yard back in the 1850s. Jack was the fourth generation to build ships here. The frown returned as he wondered bleakly if he would
be the last.
    ‘You will be careful?’ Chrissie repeated the warning. She had been brought up alongside the yards and heard all the stories of men falling from staging, being
crushed, drowned or their skulls cracked by dropped tools.
    Tom promised patiently, ‘Yes, mother.’
    ‘And send me a postcard tonight to let me know you’ve settled into your lodgings all right.’
    Tom would not yet be working at Ballantyne’s. He had said, ‘I don’t want to start as the boss’s son,’ so Jack had found him an apprenticeship in a yard on the Tyne
and Tom would be living in lodgings close by. That, too, had been Tom’s idea, and he had said it was to be near his work, though he could have travelled there daily by train in little more
than a half-hour. But it was also to prove to himself that he could manage on his own. Chrissie had guessed that last and accepted it.
    Now she was not finding it easy.
    On the opposite platform stood a little group of men in their suits and carrying cases, their wives holding on to their arms. They were waiting for the southbound train to go looking for work
because their yards had shut down. Chrissie’s fears for Ballantyne’s returned, a spectre that had haunted her for twelve years.
    She watched and waved as Tom’s train took him from her, he leaning out of the window and flapping a hand. Then she walked out of the station and across the road to the Railway Hotel.
    She pushed through the swinging doors into the foyer and started across the deep-pile carpet with its scattering of leather armchairs and small, light oak tables. She caught the scent of the
flowers in the vases on the tables and glimpsed her reflection in the huge mirrors set in the panelled walls, a slender, long-legged woman in her early forties. Her dress was rayon and expensive
and her hair with a tinge of copper had been washed and waved by a hairdresser.
    She checked in her stride as Susan Dobson, the receptionist, smiled and said, ‘Good morning, Mrs Ballantyne. There’s a young lady who would like to see you.’
    The girl had been sitting by the desk, stiff and straight, her hands in her lap, feet tucked under the chair. Now she stood up quickly. The print of her cotton dress was faded and Chrissie
guessed it had been made from another; she had experience of that. She thought this slight girl was younger than her own daughter, and seemed frightened. Chrissie smiled and asked, ‘You are .
. .?’
    ‘Sarah Tennant, miss – Mrs Ballantyne.’ Spoken in little more than a whisper – and still remembering her school manners.
    Chrissie thought she knew why the girl was there and sighed to herself, but she said, ‘Come along, then,’ and led the way into her office.

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    Chrissie’s office was comfortable with thick carpeting and a rug before the fireplace, which was covered by an attractive floral screen in this summer weather. A big
window let in sunlight which reflected from the polished desk. Behind the desk was a swivel chair and before it two armchairs. Two more stood on either side of the fireplace.
    Chrissie sat behind her desk and gestured to Sarah to take a chair before it. Sarah complied but only perched on the edge of it. Chrissie asked, ‘So what did you want to see me
about?’
    ‘My mother thought you might give me a job. She worked for you years ago: Isabel Tennant?’ That