Gaslight in Page Street (31 page)

‘Yer should give some thought to ’er schoolin’, George,’ Nora went on. ‘The child’s bright an’ it might be a good idea ter get ’er fixed up at one o’ those boardin’ schools, or maybe St Olave’s Grammar School.’

George stared back into the fire. He had not really considered the matter before and felt at a loss to know which way to proceed. ‘Could yer make some enquiries, Nora?’ he asked. ‘Yer close ter the child. Find out what she wants ter do an’ we can talk later.’

Nora sipped her port and felt a warm glow inside. She was satisfied with the way she had seized the most opportune moment. George was like all men, she told herself. Catch them when they were well fed and supped, and leave the rest to intuition.

On Saturday evening the fog had lifted and the night was clear and starry. William Tanner let himself into the yard through the wicket-gate and held the sprung door open while Carrie stepped through behind him. It was not very often that she went with him to the yard now, he thought as she walked along beside him, but when he had told her about the Cleveland gelding she wanted to see the animal for herself. They crossed the dark yard and William took down the paraffin lamp from above the door of the small stable and primed it.

Carrie smelt the familiar stable aroma as she stepped into the whitewashed interior, and as her father hung the lighted lamp from a centre post she saw the gelding. She had learned how to pick out the finer points of horses and their strengths and weaknesses but when she cast her eyes on the bay she felt almost at a loss for words. ‘’E’s beautiful!’ she gasped, going up to the horse and running her hand down his neck.

‘Careful,’ her father warned her. ‘’E’s nervous.’

Carrie held out the sugar lump she had brought with her and let the animal take it from her palm. Her eyes were wide with wonderment and William smiled. He had never known her to show any fear of horses and the animal seemed to respond. He bent his head and nuzzled her, then blew loudly as though approving. William took his daughter’s arm and urged her away from the animal. ‘We mustn’t worry ’im too much, Carrie. I’m tryin’ ter get ’im settled,’ William told her.

Carrie stood watching while her father spread straw down in the stall and replenished the food trough. She smiled as the animal turned his head towards her and fixed her with huge baleful eyes. ‘’Ow could anybody ill-treat such a beautiful ’orse?’ she murmured.

William put down the rake and leaned back against the stall-board. ‘This animal ’as bin used fer trap-racin’,’ he replied. ‘It’s bin lashed wiv a whip. Look, yer can see the scars. It’s also bin tied to a post an’ beaten, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘’Ow d’yer know?’ she asked him.

William slipped his thumbs into his belt. ‘When I first took ’im out o’ the trap and led ’im ter the trough ’e thought I was gonna tether ’im ter the post an’ ’e bucked. That’s prob’ly what used ter ’appen ter the animal.’

‘But why?’

‘Clevelands were bred fer carriages, Carrie,’ he explained. ‘They’re proud trotters and they keep their ’eads ’igh. They’re not meant ter gallop wiv their ’eads ’eld low. Trouble is, some people like ter race ’em in the traps. They bet on the outcome an’ they ferget the whip is fer encouragin’ the ’orse, not ter punish it. Sometimes they lose money an’ then they take their anger out on the animal. They short tether it to a post or ring, an’ larrup it wiv a wet rope. They see it as a way o’ breakin’ the animal’s spirit, but no one can do that. ’Orses’ll work till they drop an’ they’ll pull a load ferever, as long as yer water ’em an’ feed ’em. They’ve got me ’ome in the fog at night an’ next mornin’ they’ve gone willin’ly inter the sharves. This animal ’as felt the rope an’ it’s wary o’ the trap. I’ve managed ter ’arness it up an’ get it in the sharves, but it needs more time before it’s ready ter go out o’ the yard.’

‘Mr Galloway won’t ill-treat it, will ’e, Dad?’ Carrie asked, going forward and patting the animal’s neck.

‘No, I wouldn’t fink so,’ William replied. ‘The ole man’s got some funny ways but ’e feels the same way as I do about ’orses. In fact, young Geoffrey wants ’im ter get rid o’ the ’orses an’ bring in motor vans but the Guv’nor won’t ’ear of it.’

Carrie leaned forward over the stall-board and pulled playfully at the gelding’s ear. ‘What would ’appen ter you if ’e did get rid o’ the ’orses, Dad?’ she asked.

William shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’d be doin’ Jack Oxford’s job, I should fink.’

Carrie caught the veiled look of concern in his eye. ‘Mr Galloway wouldn’t sack yer, would ’e, Dad? Yer’ve worked fer ’im fer years.’

‘’Course ’e wouldn’t,’ her father said, taking down the lamp and putting his arm around her shoulders. ‘’E’ll keep the ’orses as long as ’e can. ’E loves ’em as much as I do.’

A keen wind was gusting as they shut the stable doors and crossed the yard. The sound of horses stomping and blowing in their stalls carried down from the main stable and from somewhere on the river came the hoarse, mournful hoot of a tug whistle.

Sharkey Morris was feeling miserable as he sat slumped on his cart and let the horse set its own pace along Tower Bridge Road. His load of animal hides was reeking and the constant squeak of a dry axle made him grimace. People on the pavement turned their noses away as he drove slowly past them, and Sharkey cursed. Hauling skins about was not a patch on the rum contract, he thought ruefully. Rum casks were clean by comparison, and the smell of raw rum always made him feel pleasantly light-headed. These skins stank to high heaven and the stench got in his clothes and on his body and ended up making him feel sick. There were no perks to this job either, he groaned to himself. At the rum arches there was always a drink going-a drink and Phyllis Watts.

Sharkey pulled up to the kerb and jumped down. The axle felt red-hot so he reached under the dicky-seat for the tin of axle grease and set to work.

‘What yer doin’, mister?’

Sharkey looked up from the wheel and saw two young lads watching him. ‘I’m greasin’ the wheel, what’s it look like I’m doin’?’ he growled.

‘Why’re yer greasin’ the wheel?’ one young lad asked.

‘’Cos it’s squeakin’, I s’pose,’ his companion said. ‘Is it squeakin’, mister?’

‘Yeah, it’s squeakin’,’ Sharkey replied grumpily.

‘Why’s it squeakin’?’

‘I dunno why it’s squeakin’. Why don’t yer piss orf ter school?’ the carman said, fixing the two lads with a hard stare.

‘We’ve ’opped the wag. We’re gonna go an’ play down the wharf,’ the first lad told him.

‘Well, why don’t yer go an’ do that then?’ Sharkey said quickly, wiping his hands on a piece of filthy-looking rag.

‘’Cos we’re watchin’ yer grease that axle.’

‘Well, I’m done now so yer can piss orf.’

‘That load o’ yours don’t ’alf stink, mister.’

‘Well if yer don’t like the smell, what yer ’angin’ around ’ere for?’

‘Got a tanner?’

‘I’ll give yer a clip roun’ the ear if yer don’t piss orf,’ Sharkey told them, waving the grease stick in their direction.

The lads looked at each other and realised there was nothing to gain by staying. ‘We’re goin’ down the wharf now,’ the first lad said. ‘Can yer give us a ride?’

Sharkey made a threatening gesture and the two boys ran off laughing.

The squeaking had stopped now and the sun had come out. The horse plodded on towards the tannery in Long Lane, its head held low. The miserable carman spat a stream of tobacco juice from the side of his mouth. Things couldn’t be much worse, he groaned to himself. His wife Margie was constantly moaning about the smell when he walked into the house, Phyllis had said she wouldn’t see him anymore until he changed his job, and her husband was threatening to do for him. Over twenty years he’d worked for Galloway and now he was reduced to carting stinking hides. Maybe it would have been better if Galloway had put him off, he thought. At least he wouldn’t have ended up smelling like a polecat.

The axle started squeaking again and Sharkey cursed. He could see smoke coming from the wheel-hub now and the wheel itself was beginning to seize up. He could see the factory gates up ahead and gritted his teeth. He knew that he should pull up and douse the wheel with water but that would take time and he was already running late as it was. If he could make the factory yard he would be able to see to the wheel while they were unloading the cart, he reasoned. There were only a few yards more to go when the axle snapped and the cart tipped violently to one side. Sharkey grabbed the rail of the seat and held on tightly as the full weight of the wet hides tore the side out of the cart, spilling the whole load on to the pavement directly outside a public house.

Things had been quiet in the Galloway yard until the phone rang. Barely a few moments later the firm’s owner came to the door of the office and bellowed out for his foreman. ‘Sharkey’s tipped a load o’ skins outside the Anchor in Long Lane,’ he shouted when William walked into the office. ‘The lan’lord’s goin’ mad. ’E’s got skins a foot ’igh outside ’is doors an’ nobody can get in or out. I tell yer, Will, if that’s down ter negligence, I’m sackin’ Sharkey on the spot, an’ I won’t be swayed this time.’

‘What ’appened ter make ’im lose the load?’ William asked.

‘Sharkey reckons the axle snapped an’ the side’s tore out o’ the cart,’ George growled. ‘I’ve got the fellmonger’s men movin’ the load, an’ the wheelwright in Long Lane is seein’ ter the cart. I wanna talk ter Sharkey later. If that wheel over’eated, I’ll murder ’im.’

At five o’clock a bleary-eyed carman drove his patched-up cart into the yard and walked unsteadily into the office. Galloway was waiting for him with a glowering expression on his face. ‘’Ow come yer let that wheel smoke?’ the owner snarled.

Sharkey shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’d almost reached the factory.’

‘I’ve just about ’ad enough of yer, Morris. Yer finished, d’yer ’ear me? Yer can take yer cards,’ Galloway shouted at him.

Sharkey smiled calmly. ‘Funny yer should say that, Guv’nor. While the men were clearin’ the load I went in the Anchor fer a drink ter steady me nerves. Who should be standin’ at the counter but Sammy Spanner. Yer don’t know Sammy Spanner, do yer?’ Galloway’s eyebrows knitted. ‘’E’s the union man fer Tommy ’Atcher’s. We ’ad a good chat, me an’ Sammy. I told ’im about ’ow I got ter cart stinkin’ skins around ’cos o’ the trouble wiv the rum firm, an’ about ’ow yer used ter go on about not ’avin’ the union in ’ere at any price. An’ yer know what Sammy said?’

‘I ain’t interested in what Sammy Spanner said,’ growled George.

‘Oh, ain’t yer?’ Sharkey grinned. ‘Well, yer ought ter be. Anyway, yer ain’t sackin’ me, ’cos I’ve jus’ put me notice in. I’m gonna work fer Tommy ’Atcher on Monday, so yer can poke yer skins.’

Chapter Eighteen

Carrie had settled into her new job at the dining rooms and soon became very popular with the carmen and river men who frequented the place. They were all pleased to see a pretty face behind the counter and enjoyed bandying friendly remarks and exchanging cheery smiles with her. Fred Bradley was very pleased with the young lady, too, and did not fail to notice that trade was beginning to improve. The customers were hanging around more lately, which usually meant an extra mug of tea and sometimes another round of toast.

She was happy in her new job and the days seemed to fly past. Every morning she served tea and took the food orders, and when trade quietened down in the lull before lunch-time she cleaned the tables, filled the salt and pepper pots and brewed fresh tea. She presented a pleasant picture with her long hair pinned securely to the top of her head and her flowered apron tied snugly at the waist. The younger carmen and river men often made advances and offered to take her on a night out at a music hall. Carrie was careful to put them off without causing offence. For her, life was simple and uncomplicated, and she was enjoying it that way. She had not even gone to any marches for the women’s movement lately, although she still remained committed to the cause. Occasionally she was tempted to have a night out with one or other of the young men but always resisted the urge. Her experience with Billy Sullivan had aroused confused feelings within her and now she was determined to wait until the time was ripe and she was sure of a young man. She had seen Sara on a couple of occasions recently. She was now going with a young lad and talking of marrying him. Jessica from the leather factory was getting married soon too, and Mary Caldwell, who had left Wilson’s to work for the WSPU in their South London Offices, had given her news of Freda. Despite her bad experience in the past she had become pregnant again but this time she was going to marry the young man. It did not worry Carrie that she was approaching twenty-one and was still single while lots of her friends and acquaintances were talking of marrying and having children. She felt she was in no hurry.

The cold winter days brought more trade and Carrie was kept very busy. One chilly morning Sharkey Morris pulled up outside in his brand new cart. As he put the nosebags on his pair of greys, Carrie saw him from the window. She had always liked the unkempt carman and had not forgotten that it was he who had first mentioned the job at Bradley’s Dining Rooms. When he sauntered in, she had a mug of tea ready for him.

‘Cor blimey! ’Ow yer doin’, young Carrie?’ he asked in his usual loud-voiced way.

She pushed back the two pennies he had slapped down on the counter. ‘It’s much better than the factory,’ she smiled. ‘What about you? What’s Tommy ’Atcher like ter work for?’