Gaslight in Page Street (2 page)

‘’E’s in there,’ George scowled. ‘’E’s always there.’

A hansom cab rattled by and then George’s hand closed around his friend’s arm. ‘There ’e is!’ he whispered.

Joshua Wainwright burped loudly as he fished into his waistcoat pocket and took out his timepiece. The hands seemed to be spinning and he put it away with a frown, hunching his shoulders as he walked off rather unsteadily in the direction of Surrey Square where he had his London residence. It had been a good week, he thought. The case was progressing nicely and the judge had been more than usually receptive when points of order had been raised. There would be a substantial settlement, of that he was sure, and the fee would be a good one too. ‘Damn this gout,’ he grumbled to himself. It had been playing him up all day.

A sudden tug on the tails of Joshua’s frock-coat made him lose his balance and as he tried to fend off his attackers he tumbled heavily into the entrance of a dark alley. His stovepipe hat was knocked from his head and a sand-filled sock crashed down on his exposed pate, sending him into oblivion.

The attack had been well timed and George and William made good their escape along the dark, reeking alleyway. The older lad had pocketed the barrister’s gold watch-and-chain together with his wallet. When they had put some distance between themselves and their victim, George stopped to catch his breath and motioned William into a doorway.

‘I’m goin’ straight ter see Stymie wiv this,’ he gasped, opening the palm of his hand and letting William catch a glimpse of the watch. ‘’Ere, there’s some tanners in the wallet. You go an’ get us both some faggots an’ pease puddin’, Will,’ he went on, passing over a silver sixpence. ‘Make yer way back ter the arch an’ keep the fire in. I shouldn’t be too long, then we can ’ave a share out.’

A wind had got up and it swirled into the evil-smelling railway arch as William tended the fire. The lad was still shaking from his first experience of foot-padding and occasionally he glanced over his shoulder as though expecting to be apprehended at any minute. As he sat before the flaring wood-fire, William saw again the face of the groaning man who had struggled to get to his feet. He shivered violently. He knew he should not have gone back but he was fearful that they had killed the old man. When George left him in the alley, William had taken a circular route into the Old Kent Road and ambled along as casually as he could towards the alley entrance. He had nothing on his person to link him with the robbery except for the silver sixpence, and he was sure that the victim had not caught sight of him as he tugged on his coat from behind. As William reached the entrance to the alley he had heard a groaning sound, and out of the corner of his eye had caught sight of a congested face as their victim staggered to his feet, cursing loudly. William had breathed easier as he hurried away to the butcher’s shop to buy supper.

When George finally reached the railway arch, he sat down with a scowl and ate the faggot and pease pudding ravenously. ‘The ole bastard tried ter do us up, Will,’ he spluttered between mouthfuls of food. ‘Two quid, that’s all we got. That watch must ’ave bin werf a small fortune. I tel yer straight, I’m gonna do fer Stymie one day, see if I don’t.’

William watched while George wiped his greasy lips on the back of his coat sleeve and then counted out the money from their victim’s wallet before handing over three one-pound notes and four sixpences. William realised that he had never in all his life had more than sixpence in his pocket. He carefully folded the notes and tucked them down the side of his boot before stretching out in front of the dying fire.

George had covered himself with a large sack and was staring up at the sodden brickwork of the arch. It was only right after all, he thought. It was he who had masterminded the job and done all the work. It was he who had had to bargain and argue with Stymie over the money for the gold watch. Then there was the time he had spent eyeing the pub and half freezing in the process. He was the leader and if it wasn’t for him they wouldn’t have had any supper that night. Yes, it was only right he should have the larger share of the proceeds.

William was still too excited to sleep. He turned on his side to face his friend. ‘We can kip in Arfur’s doss-’ouse termorrer night, George, now we’ve got money,’ he said cheerfully.

George grunted. ‘Yeah, an’ we can pay tuppence an’ get proper blankets. Those bleedin’ penny beds ain’t too clean. Last time we was there I got bitten all over.’ He yawned and turned on to his side. ‘One day I’m gonna get meself an ’orse an’ cart an’ do deliveries. There’s a good livin’ ter be made cartin’ skins about. I’m gonna make me pile an’ ’ave me own cartage business, Will, you see if I don’t.’

William sighed contentedly. His belly was full and the warmth from the fire had penetrated his cold, aching limbs. The thought of owning his own business did not excite him, but driving a horse and cart was another thing. William often hung around the stables in Long Lane and earned pennies for running errands. The carmen were a good lot, and sometimes they paid him to muck out the stalls and fill the nosebags with fresh chaff. He loved being around horses and often picked up a few carrots from the Borough Market or from under the market stalls in Tower Bridge Road for the nags.

‘I just wanna drive a pair o’ dapple-greys, George,’ he said, staring into the grey embers of the fire. ‘I’d plait their tails an’ polish the ’arnesses - I’d ’ave the smartest pair of ’orses in the ole o’ Bermon’sey.’

But George was already fast asleep, and dreaming of bigger things.

Chapter One

On Sunday, 20th May 1900 church bells rang out in Bermondsey. People were out on the streets to celebrate, and along the Old Kent Road horse buses and the new electric trams rattled by, garlanded with Union Jacks and bunting. The cheering crowds exchanged newspapers and waved excitedly as an open-topped tram came into view with local councillors aboard. The mayor, wearing his chain of office, stood at the front of the upper deck holding a portrait of Queen Victoria aloft. Loud cheers rang out as spectators caught sight of the large framed picture, and then the waiting crowds hoisted the children on to their shoulders as the procession came into sight.

At the head of the parade a team of horses was drawing a brewery dray which contained an effigy of a Boer soldier with his hands held over his head being prodded by a British Tommy. Along the side of the cart a white sheet was tied, with the words ‘Mafeking Relieved’ painted in red along its length. Behind the leading dray there were smaller carts, pulled by well-groomed horses. ‘Broomhead’ Smith the totter came by sitting proudly on his creaking cart, tufts of ginger hair sticking out from under his battered trilby. His horse looked unusually spruce despite the dirty, moth-eaten Union Jack that had been laid over its withers. On the back of the cart there was a rusty wringer which Broomhead had meant to remove before the parade started. He had covered it over instead and now the blanket had slipped off. The crowds laughed as he waved his whip in their direction and doffed his cap.

Carrie Tanner stood beside her father on the kerbside, holding his hand and shifting from one foot to the other. Her new button-up boots were pinching slightly but Carrie was too excited to care as the parade moved by. She was waiting for the Galloway cart with its team of two greys. She had helped her father to brush the horses and tie on their coloured ribbons; she had used the curry-comb and the large, heavy brush until their coats glistened and her arms ached. Her father had laughed as she reached up to the nags’ manes and carefully plaited the coarse strands of hair as she had been shown. At last the horses had been fed and given their tit-bits of carrot and Carrie hurried from the stables to get cleaned up. She felt proud of helping her father, and as she spotted the Galloway team jumped up and down excitedly. ‘Look, Dad, look!’ she cried out. ‘Don’t they look luvverly?’

William Tanner smiled at his eldest child and moved to one side so that she could get a better view. ‘You did a good job, Carrie,’ he said, his hands resting on her shoulders. ‘I should reckon we stand a good chance o’ gettin’ the prize.’

As the cart drew level William cast a critical eye over the cart. He had spent much time scrubbing the paintwork and the name ‘George Galloway, Carter’ now stood out clearly on the side. Galloway’s longest serving carman Sharkey Morris was up in the dicky seat and waved to Carrie and William as he rode by. Sharkey had a bowler hat on, and for the first time in his life was wearing a white starched collar and black tie. The brown tweed suit which he wore was not his. It had been loaned to him by the owner of the cartage firm, who was anxious to snatch the first prize for the best turned-out entrant in the parade. William smiled to himself as he recalled what Galloway had said when he saw Sharkey march into the yard early that morning: ‘Gawd ’elp us, Will. ’E looks a bleedin’ scruff. I can’t ’ave ’im sittin’ up on that cart lookin’ like that. Bring ’im in the office an’ I’ll send young Geoff ’ome fer one o’ me old suits.’

The parade had passed by. William took his daughter’s hand as they followed on to New Kent Road where the judging was to take place. Carrie felt the excitement growing inside her as she hurried along beside her father. Her tight boots were making her hobble but she ignored the pain. She wanted desperately for Galloway’s horse and cart to win the prize, for her father’s sake. He had worked hard on the wagon and team and she knew how much winning would mean to him.

At nine years old Carrie was more like her father than her three younger brothers. She was slim, with long fair hair and blue eyes a shade or two darker than his. She was a pretty girl with a saucy smile which seemed to start at the corners of her mouth and light up her whole face. Carrie loved her father dearly and spent as much time as she could in the stables, helping him with the horses and polishing the brasses and harnesses. She loved the warm sweet smell of the stalls and the sound of steel horseshoes over the cobbles as the animals set out each morning pulling the empty carts. On occasions she would feign sickness or a sore throat to escape having to go to school, but then she would make a miraculous recovery during the day and slip out from the house to the adjoining yard.

Her father laughed at his wife Nellie’s concern over their daughter. ‘She’s a bright child an’ she’s gonna do all right,’ he had told her.

Nellie had shaken her head in dismay. ‘It’s not right, ’er bein’ away from school so much, Will,’ she replied. ‘The child needs ter learn ’er lessons. Besides, it’s not proper fer a young gel ter ’ang around in that yard. She could get injured wiv those carts in an’ out.’

William had pulled a face. ‘Look, Nell, the child’s ’appy wiv what she’s doin’.’ he retorted. ‘She’s gonna grow up soon enough, an’ what’s in store fer ’er? I’ll tell yer - she’s gonna slog away in a tannery or in one o’ the factories. Then she’s gonna get married an’ be saddled wiv kids. Let ’er be ’appy while she can.’

The day was bright with a warm sun shining down on the entrants as they lined up in New Kent Road. All the carmen stood beside their horses, waiting for the mayor to arrive. Broomhead Smith scowled as he looked at the rusty wringer on the back of his cart. He was upset by some of the comments made to him by the waiting crowd.

‘Oi, Broom’ead! Are yer gonna mangle the mayor if yer don’t win?’ one wag called out.

‘’Ere, is it all right fer me ter bring a pissy mattress round an’ sling it on the cart, Broom’ead?’ shouted someone else.

The totter tried to ignore their remarks but he could barely contain his anger after one of the councillors strolled by and then had a whispered conversation with a policeman standing nearby. The PC strolled up to Broomhead with a wide grin on his ruddy face. ‘’E asked me ter get yer ter move the cart, Broomy,’ he said, trying to look serious. ‘’E didn’t know yer was in the parade.’

‘Silly ole sod,’ Broomhead spluttered. ‘Where’d they dig ’im up from?’

The policeman’s face broke into a grin again. ‘I reckon the wringer ain’t too bad. Could do wiv a rub down an’ a coat o’ paint though,’ he said as he walked off.

The mayor was walking slowly along the line, stopping at each cart and consulting with his colleagues. Notes were scribbled down into a notebook by one of the judges and heads nodded vigorously. When they reached the totter’s cart the judges shook their heads and walked on quickly, much to Broomhead Smith’s chagrin, but when they arrived at Galloway’s horse and team the mayor looked pleased with what he saw. Carrie looked up into William’s face, her hand tightening on his. Crowds were milling around the dais which had been set up by the park gates, and when the mayor climbed up on to the stand and held his hands up for silence everyone started jostling.

‘Quiet! Quiet!’ one of the councillors called out. ‘Be quiet for the mayor.’

Broomhead recognised the man as the one who had earlier had words about him with the policeman. ‘Shut yer gob, Ugly,’ he called out. ‘’Ow d’yer like ter get mangled?’

The laughter died away as the mayor began his speech, in which he praised the hard work undertaken by everyone involved. He then went on at length about the gallam soldiers who had held out at Mafeking for so long and the equally valiant action which had finally relieved them. Loud cheers went up at his words, but when the mayor started to itemise the good work being done by the local council the crowds became restless.

‘Knock it on the ’ead, mate,’ someone called out.

‘Tell us who’s won, fer Gawd’s sake,’ the cry went up.

The dignitary held up his hands and as the crowd quietened he put on his pince-nez and stared at the slip of paper in his hands for a few moments.