Gaslight in Page Street (21 page)

‘’Old up, ’old up,’ William interrupted. ‘Yer sayin’ yer got chucked out o’ the doss-’ouse fer fightin’? You, fightin’?’

Jack nodded slowly. ‘It was over me boots, yer see,’ he began. ‘Every night when I get inter bed I put the posts o’ the bed in me boots. That way nobody can nick ’em wivout movin’ the bed. Well, last night I ’ad me fish an’ chips an’ me pint o’ porter an’ I was just about ter leave the pub when ole Tommy Carberry walked in. You remember Tommy Carberry, ’im who used ter be a carman ’ere a few years back? Well, me an’ Tommy gets talkin’ an’ ’e asked ’ow yer was gettin’ on, so I told ’im ’ow yer was an’ ’ow yer kids was all growin’ up, an’ ...’

‘What’s all this got ter do wiv yer gettin’ chucked out o’ the doss-’ouse?’ William asked, sighing with impatience.

‘Well, yer see, Tommy bought me anuvver pint o’ porter an’ then I gets ’im one back an’ ...’

‘So yer ended up gettin’ pissed?’

‘That’s right, Will.’

‘Let me guess the rest,’ William said, grinning. ‘Yer fergot ter put yer boots under the bedposts an’ this Fatty what’s-’isname nicked ’em?’

Jack Oxford grinned back at the yard foreman. ‘Next mornin’ I got up early an’ caught Fatty Arbuckle walkin’ out wiv me boots on. Fatty Arbuckle ain’t ’is real name but everybody calls ’im that. Anyway, I ses, “Oi, them’s my boots,” an’ ’e calls me a stupid so-an’-so, so I ses, “I know them’s my boots ’cos they’ve got ’orse shit on ’em.” Well, ’e tries ter leave an’ I grabs ’old of ’im, an’ next fing yer know I’m on the floor. The noise woke everybody up an’ the bloke in the next bed ter me grabs Arbuckle an’ makes ’im give me me boots back. Funny fing was, who d’yer fink the bloke in the next bed was, Will?’

William shook his head slowly. ‘Gawd knows.’

‘It was me ole mate Tommy Carberry,’ Jack said, chuckling. ‘’E was so pissed ’e kipped in the doss-’ouse. Mind yer, though, Fatty Arbuckle didn’t argue wiv ole Tommy. “Give the man ’is boots back, yer fievin’ git,” ’e ses. By that time everybody’s shoutin’ out fer Arbuckle ter give me me boots back so they can go back ter sleep. That’s when ole Chopper Chislett who owns the doss-’ouse told me ter piss orf an’ don’t come back. That’s why I’m kippin’ ’ere ternight. Yer don’t mind, do yer, Will?’

William puffed hard. ‘It’s not a case of do I mind,’ he said wearily. ‘If Galloway knows yer kippin’ in the stable, ’e’ll sack yer fer sure. Anuvver fing, it’s Saturday night. ’Ow was yer gonna get out termorrer mornin’ wiv the place all locked up?’

‘That’s easy,’ Jack replied, ‘I was gonna get over the back wall an’ drop down in the alley.’

‘Well, yer’ll ’ave ter go, Jack. Yer can’t stop ’ere all night,’ William said firmly.

‘But I ain’t doin’ any ’arm,’ he pleaded.

William raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Look, Jack, the ole man only wants the slightest excuse ter put yer off, so don’t go givin’ ’im one.’

The yard man nodded slowly and bent down to gather up his few possessions. ‘All right, Will. Yer right, I shouldn’t be ’ere,’ he said. ‘I’ll try the kip ’ouse in Bermondsey Street. They might ’ave a bed fer the night.’

William looked at Jack Oxford for a few moments then sighed in resignation and took the yard man by the arm. ‘Look, yer won’t get a bed this time o’ night an’ the fog’s gettin’ worse. Yer’d better stay ’ere, but fer Gawd’s sake don’t let anybody know I said that, an’ don’t let anybody catch yer dossin’ down up ’ere, all right?’

Jack’s face lit up. ‘Will, yer a brick. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’

William walked off down the ramp and as he reached the gate he heard Jack whistling after him. He turned and saw the yard man’s head poking out from the loft. ‘I won’t get me boots nicked ’ere, Will!’ he shouted.

Chapter Twelve

1909 started cold and damp, and the new year brought fresh worries for the folk who lived in the Bermondsey backstreets. Wilson’s leather factory went on to short-time working, and the river men found themselves struggling for work as trade slumped and the dockside berths stayed empty. The Surrey Docks were almost idle and local dockers stood around at the gates every morning hoping for a call-on. At the Galloway yard there was talk of at least two carmen being put off in the next few weeks, and added misery was heaped upon the hard-pressed tenants of Page Street when they heard that George Galloway had bought more houses in the turning and was going to raise the rents.

The latest rumour was the main topic of discussion for Nellie Tanner and her friends when they had one of their get-togethers in Nellie’s neat and tidy parlour.

‘I’m lucky I don’t ’ave ter pay any rent,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘I’ve got ’em all workin’, now young Danny’s got a job as an errand boy, but I’m worried in case Will loses ’is job. If that ’appens we’ll be out on the street. I can’t see Galloway lettin’ us stop ’ere.’

‘Yeah, it mus’ be a worry fer yer,’ Florrie Axford remarked. ‘Yer kids don’t bring in much, an’ yer still gotta feed ’em all.’

Maisie Dougall nodded in agreement. ‘Yer right there, Flo. My two boys are workin’ now, but they don’t bring ’ome much. They’re only factory ’ands. Mind yer, the money comes in ’andy now me ole man ain’t doin’ much at the Surrey.’

‘’Ow much d’yer fink ’e’s gonna put the rent up by, Nellie?’ Aggie Temple asked, straightening the front of her flowered pinafore.

Nellie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I ’eard ’e’s puttin’ it up ter ten shillin’s a week. Mind yer, it’s only a rumour. My Will don’t get ter ’ear much. Galloway don’t let ’im know anyfink.’

‘I reckon it’s bloody scand’lous,’ Maisie said. ‘’Ow we gonna be able ter pay it? An’ what’s ’e gonna do if not? Chuck the lot of us out in the street?’

Florrie put down her teacup and leaned back in the chair. ‘I fink it’s best ter wait an’ see,’ she said. ‘It’s no good upsettin’ ourselves before it ’appens.’

Aggie nodded. ‘I s’pose yer right, Flo. At least I ain’t got no kids ter worry about an’ me ole man’s job is pretty secure. Lamplighters don’t bring in much money but they’re always in work. Mind you, it’s the bloody hours what get ter me. It’s not so bad in the winter but in the summer ’e don’t go out lightin’ up till nine or ten.’

Florrie folded her arms inside her loose apron. ‘Well, I ain’t got no ole man ter worry about,’ she said cheerily. ‘I can come an’ go when I like an’ me time’s me own.’

‘Don’t yer sometimes wish yer was married again, Flo?’ Aggie asked. ‘I mean, it mus’ get lonely in that place all by yerself.’

Florrie shook her head vigorously. ‘I’ve ’ad two ole men an’ that’s two too many.’

Maisie turned to Nellie. ‘’Ow’s your Carrie gettin’ on wiv them suffragette people?’ she asked. ‘She goes on the marches, don’t she?’

Nellie pulled a face. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she said, gesturing with her hand. ‘She nearly got ’erself locked up on the last march. Apparently all the women sat down in the middle o’ Parliament Square, an’ it was only when the mounted police galloped up that they moved. I told ’er she could ’ave got ’erself trampled on but she just laughed. Trouble is, if they do get arrested their names go in the papers an’ everybody knows yer business.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ Florrie said. ‘I fink it’s a good cause. All right yer worried over Carrie goin’ on them marches but at least it shows the kid’s got pluck, and sense. I mean ter say, it’s diabolical we can’t vote. I fink we’ve got more idea than ’alf the men. They all seem ter get pissed on pollin’ day, an’ if yer ask ’em who they voted for they can’t remember.’

‘It must be a worry though, Nell,’ Aggie said. ‘It might be better when yer gel gets ’erself a chap. Ain’t she got one yet?’

Nellie picked up the big iron teapot and started to refill the cups. ‘Carrie’s sweet on that Billy Sullivan,’ she said, putting the teapot back down on the hob. ‘She’s always talkin’ to ’im but they ain’t walkin’ out tergevver. The boy’s boxin’ mad, an’ accordin’ to Sadie ’e’s gonna start fightin’ fer money. She said ’e wants ter get a fight at the Blackfriars Ring.’

Aggie pulled a face. ‘I ’eard that’s a right rough place. I wouldn’t like a son o’ mine ter be a boxer. Look at ole Solly Green who’s got the paper stall in Jamaica Road. ’E was a boxer when ’e was a young man, now look at ’im. ’E’s got a nose spread all over ’is face an’ yer can’t get more than a mumble out of ’im. My ’Arold said Solly used ter fight at the Blackfriars Ring. Bloody shame really.’

The women lapsed into silence while they sipped their tea. After a while Nellie put down her cup and turned to Florrie. ‘I bin finkin’,’ she said, ‘why don’t we get a beano up like the men do?’

‘That’s a good idea,’ Florrie enthused. ‘We could go ter Eppin’ Forest an’ stop at a pub.’

Maisie stroked her chin. ‘They don’t like women goin’ in pubs, Flo. Will they let us in?’

Florrie waved Maisie’s reservations aside with a sweep of her arm. ‘It’s different when yer go on beanos. There’s a pub on the way ter Eppin’ where the trippers pull up, an’ they let yer buy drinks an’ sit out on the grass. There’s a special bar fer women. I’ve bin there so I know.’

Aggie looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve never bin in a pub before, ’cept the snug bar at the Kings Arms,’ she said. ‘P’raps we could ’ire one o’ them new-fangled motor charabangs if we save up enough money.’

Florrie looked doubtful. ‘I don’t fink we could get enough money fer that, Aggie. We might be able ter get an’ ’orse-an’cart. Galloway’ll let us ’ave one, won’t ’e, Nell?’

‘I should fink so,’ Nellie replied. ‘’E won’t let us ’ave it fer nuffink though, knowin’ ’im. Still, I could see Will. Long as they don’t let ole Sharkey drive it. That bloke’s always pissed. My Will reckons ’e’ll be one o’ the first ter go if any o’ the men do get put orf.’

Florrie put down her empty cup. ‘Right then, I’ll put the word round the street an’ see ’ow many names we get.’

‘I’ll talk ter Will soon as ’e’s finished work,’ Nellie promised.

The tea party finally broke up, and while Nellie turned her attention to the empty teacups, Maisie left to do the huge pile of washing and ironing she had taken in and Aggie hurried home to put the duster over her spotless front parlour. Florrie meanwhile went away eagerly looking forward to starting on her list for the beano.

Carrie Tanner was looking forward to her eighteenth birthday, aware of the feelings stirring inside her. Often when she met Billy Sullivan on the street her stomach churned and she felt her breath coming fast as he stopped to talk, but there were times when she felt uncomfortable and miserable and was uneasy about seeing him. From listening to the other girls at the factory talking about the monthly curse she knew that they had similar feelings. She had also heard from listening to the older women that babies were made at certain times of the month and there were times when it was more likely to happen than not. The information she gleaned had left Carrie feeling confused. She had been experiencing her menses for some years now and knew what to do about them, but she had not been able to bring herself to ask her mother about how to avoid becoming pregnant.

It was lunch time and Wilson’s workers were sitting in the ground-floor room eating their sandwiches when the subject of babies came up again. Freda Lawton was talking about the time she got pregnant.

‘I went ter see this ole woman,’ she was saying. ‘The bloke what got me pregnant told me about ’er an’ ’e reckoned she could get rid of it. I was only about two months gorn when I went ter see ’er an’ I tell yer, the ’ouse stunk ter ’igh ’eaven. She was a scruffy ole cow wiv long straggly ’air. She looked like an ole witch. Anyway she give me this stuff ter drink. It tasted so ’orrible I was nearly sick right there an’ then. She told me ter go ’ome an’ ’ave a good soak in the tub. Trouble was, when I got ’ome me muvver was boilin’ the clothes in the copper so I ’ad ter put the stew-pot on the fire. It took bloody ages an’ before I ’ad enough water fer the tin barf I was sick. Me stomach was burnin’ an’ me muvver called the doctor in. ’E reckoned I’d bin poisoned. Anyway it never stopped me ’avin’ me baby.’

Jessica shook her head. ‘Some o’ those people who get rid o’ babies ought ter be locked up,’ she scowled. ‘There was this gel in Bacon Street Buildin’s who got ’erself pregnant an’ she went ter this place in Bermondsey Lane. This woman give ’er somefink ter drink, then she put this long knittin’-needle inside ’er. Nearly killed the poor cow she did. They couldn’t stop the bleedin’ an’ she was carted orf ter Guy’s. If I ever got pregnant wivout bein’ married, Gawd ferbid, I’d sooner bear the shame than get rid of it.’

Freda nodded in agreement. ‘Us workin’ gels ain’t got much of a life when yer come ter fink of it. We go ter work till we find a bloke an’ get married, an’ then we’re pregnant in no time. Some are lucky an’ don’t ’ave many kids but ovvers ’ave one every year. The woman what delivered my baby was tellin’ me about this young gel what kept gettin’ pregnant. Ten kids she ’ad by the time she was twenty-seven. The woman told me she delivered every one, an’ she told me that when she went ter the first confinement the gel didn’t know a fing about ’ow babies get born. She even asked ’er ’ow the baby was gonna get out.’

Carrie had been listening intently to the conversation and she remembered some of the things she had heard said about birth control and limiting the amount of children in families. One of the women speakers at the suffragette meetings had mentioned setting up clinics for pregnant women and giving women more information about how to prevent unwanted babies. Carrie found herself becoming more and more confused as she listened to her friends. For some time now she had been thinking about what would happen if she walked out with Billy Sullivan and he tried to make love to her. What would he do if she said no?