Gaslight in Page Street (42 page)

Horace Gallagher was alone in the office as he turned back the pages of the bound ledger and glanced at the entries. It seemed to him that the whole of his past life was represented there in the bold, sloping handwriting in purple ink. He saw the entry for two hard-bristle yard brooms dated 1905 and a faint smile came to his face. Galloway had made a fuss over that purchase, he recalled. Why two brushes when there was only one yard sweeper? he had argued. Lower down the page Horace noted the sale of one dozen Irish Draughts to the Royal Artillery and had a vision of women lining the street and Nellie Tanner marching up to the hosepipe with a chopper in her hand. It was all there, he thought. Stories hidden behind dates and figures. Another entry caught his eye and Horace rested his chin on his hand. ‘Collection and transport of one carcass’ the entry read. He had never thought of himself as a horse lover but that docile little Welsh cob had been everyone’s favourite animal. He remembered young Carrie Tanner sitting on its back when she was small and how she had sobbed uncontrollably when it died of colitis. Horace turned the pages which marked the passage of the years. There were entries for sale and purchase of horses, carts and animal foodstuffs, and one entry near the front of the book back in 1895 which read simply, ‘One small wreath, John Flynn’.

Horace closed the ledger and stood it on the shelf beside the rents and wages ledgers. It was all there, he reflected. More than twenty years of his life spent setting down in ink the progression of George Galloway and Sons, Cartage Contractor and Horse Trader. The ledger would one day be filled to the last line of the last page, he thought with a smile, and wondered who might be sitting there writing in it. Eventually all the books would be gathering dust on dark shelves until some time when they were taken down and pored over out of idle curiosity. The elderly accountant reached forward and pulled a sheet of plain paper towards him and then unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen. For a while he stared down at the blank sheet of paper, and then he leant forward low over the desk and started to write in his flowing style.

At thirty minutes past the hour of four Horace Gallagher closed and locked his desk and stood the sealed envelope against the sloping lid. Then he put on his coat, and following the habit of a lifetime, buttoned it from top to bottom before donning his trilby and taking up his beechwood cane. As he walked out of the yard, Jack Oxford called out goodnight but Horace did not hear him. He walked slowly along the turning and touched the brim of his hat to Florrie Axford as he passed her. At the end of the street Horace stopped and turned to face the darkness towards the yard gates, then set off on his usual walk to London Bridge Station.

Trams clattered past and people were spilling out of the offices in Tooley Street as he walked in the shadow of the high railway arches and reached the steep flight of steps that led to the station forecourt. Horace climbed them slowly with his head held low, ignoring the young men who dashed past him taking the stairs two at a time. There was no hurry, he thought. The trains were frequent at this time of day.

The platform was packed with tired, jaded workers. Horace stood with his back resting against the waiting-room wall, not seeing their blank faces. Another day, another shilling, he thought, smiling to himself.

The station announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker and passengers moved forward as the four-fifty-five drew into the station. Elbows were raised and shoulder pressed against shoulder as workers stood abreast, each attempting to be first into the carriages. Horace waited and as the train drew out of the station he started to tap his foot with the tip of his cane. Trains are frequent this time of day, he told himself once more. When the next train announcement came over the loudspeaker he moved forward, and as the four-fifty-nine to Sidcup drew into the station Horace Gallagher threw himself under the wheels.

The afternoon was mild, with feathery clouds wafting across a blue sky, as George Galloway sat back in his trap and let the gelding set a lively pace. He was looking forward to what promised to be a very pleasurable afternoon, and whistled tunelessly to himself as he drove along Brixton Road. Bringing Jake Mitchell back to Bermondsey was a very good idea he told himself, and the sooner the fights got under way the better. The gold pendant resting in his waistcoat pocket had cost a packet, and so had the bangle he had given Rose only last week. She did not like cheap, gawdy jewellery and she had been very pleased with her expensive gift, promising to keep it out of sight whenever her elderly patron was on the scene. She would be pleased with the pendant. Maybe he had been a bit extravagant, but it didn’t matter.

Rose had turned out to be quite a catch. He had not been disappointed in her. She was all woman, with a highly developed carnal appetite and a taste for adventure. Their mutually enjoyable afternoons were becoming quite a feature of his life and so far Rose had been very discreet. Her provider was happy to keep her in the fashion she was accustomed to, and seemed none the wiser. He visited her during the evenings, business permitting, and she was left free to pursue her own interests during the day. George grinned to himself as he neared Rose’s house in Acre Lane. A woman like her needed much more than her elderly provider could give her, he thought smugly, and it seemed only right that he should be given a little help with the lady.

George pulled the trap up outside the ostler’s yard opposite Rose’s house and gave the man his usual half a crown to take care of the horse and vehicle, then crossed the road and let himself in through the front door. The arrangement was a good one, he gloated. Each Tuesday and Friday afternoon Rose’s patron attended board meetings and there was no possibility of their being disturbed by his unexpected arrival. Rose had given George a key and a time which he strictly adhered to. He smiled to himself as he hurried up to her flat on the first floor and knocked gently on the door. Rose always wore a flimsy nightdress under a wrap when she greeted him, and he was usually rewarded with a big hug as he stepped through the doorway.

This time George was disappointed. The door was opened by a large young man who casually grabbed him by the coat lapels and pulled him roughly over the threshold. George found himself standing in the middle of the room looking down at his tearful mistress. Beside her stood a distinguished-looking gentleman, immaculately dressed in a grey suit and derby hat to match. He wore spats over his black patent shoes and was holding a silver-topped cane. The young man stood to one side, eyeing George malevolently, hands tucked into his coat pockets.

‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,’ the older man said, smiling sarcastically.

George straightened his coat and glared back. ‘What’s your game?’ he growled, trying to compose himself.

‘I might ask the same of you,’ the man replied calmly, walking slowly towards George. ‘It appears that you have been visiting Miss Martin on various occasions during the past few weeks. Tuesdays and Fridays, to be precise. You arrive at two-thirty in the afternoon and stay until around five o’clock. Later on one occasion.’

George swallowed drily and searched desperately for a way out of his predicament. ‘That’s right,’ he said quickly, his eye catching the piano in the far corner of the room. ‘I give ’er pianner lessons every Tuesdays and Fridays.’

The older man’s face broke into a cruel smile and he looked down at the distressed figure of Rose. ‘That’s not what Miss Martin told me before you knocked on the door,’ he said with measured relish. ‘She told me you were her uncle who had lost his wife and was feeling lonely, and so you came round to have a nice little chat. Now which of these stories should I believe? Surely you’re not both lying?’

Rose dabbed at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief and George stared helplessly at his tormentor.

‘Norman, will you show our visitor to the piano? Perhaps we could be honoured with a brief demonstration of the gentleman’s talents,’ the older man said quietly.

The beefy young man took George by the arm and led him over to the piano.

‘Are you familiar with Chopin’s Nocturne in E-Flat?’ the senior man said in a silky voice. ‘Opus nine number two. Or maybe you’d like to entertain us with your interpretation of Liszt’s Hungarian Fantasy.’

George looked down at the piano keys and then stared back dumbly.

‘Perhaps you’d prefer to offer us a short medley of popular tunes,’ the man said condescendingly.

George’s mind was racing. He had lived by his wits all his life and suddenly he felt as if he was back in the days of his youth, cornered beneath the stinking arches with policemen closing in, their truncheons drawn ready to beat a lone young animal into submission. He could feel the blows again and the laughter as they walked off, leaving him bloody and barely alive.

George smiled thinly as he bent over the keyboard, and delicately tested the keys with his forefinger, his other hand resting on the top of the piano, inches away from a cut-glass vase. ‘Pass us the music, will yer?’ he said casually, pointing to the table.

For an instant the young man’s attention was distracted and George knew that he could not hesitate. In one swipe he grabbed the heavy vase and smashed it with all the force he could muster full into the hoodlum’s face. The young man dropped as though pole-axed and George wheeled, a snarl on his face as he closed on the older man.

‘Don’t you touch me!’ he cried, backing away.

George made a grab for him and the man tumbled over Rose’s legs and collapsed in a heap, his hands covering his head. George stood for a moment looking at Rose, wondering what he should do.

‘Go!’ she shouted. ‘Just go.’

Beads of sweat were starting on his forehead as he hurried down the stairs and out into the street. He was still sweating profusely as he sat in the trap and let the horse have his head.

It was a quarter to five when Galloway drove his trap into the yard. He did not want to go home and face Nora’s searching gaze, and as he sat watching the rising and falling of the gelding’s flanks his thoughts were still racing. What would happen to Rose? he wondered. She would no doubt suffer a beating, but she would survive. She would gush tears and swear her loyalty, and maybe the excuse for a man who kept her would forgive her and shower more gifts upon her. He’d survive without Rose too - in fact he’d be better off. With Jake Mitchell coming to fight for him and being a good earner, he wouldn’t have to waste his money on that woman. He grinned smugly.

George crossed the yard and walked into the empty office. He sat down at his desk and reached for the whisky bottle, aware of the loud ticking noise from the clock. For a while he sat at his desk and then he swivelled around and stretched out his feet. He glanced up at the clock and noted that it was one minute to five o’clock. It was then that his eyes caught sight of the sealed envelope that was propped against the far desk. George felt a sudden sense of bewilderment and he frowned as he tore open the letter. As he read the few words written in a flowing script he groaned loudly and lifted his misted eyes to the ceiling. He was still staring up as if transfixed when William walked into the office.

‘What’s wrong?’ the yard foreman asked in alarm.

George passed the note over without a word and William slowly read the short message:

Dear George,

When you read this note my life will be over. Loneliness is a cross I could no longer bear. Only my work sustained me through the years. And now that’s been taken away from me. Take heart, the books are in order and up to date. Just one last thought: value old friends. Without them life is empty, as I have sadly discovered.

Yours in eternity,
Horace Gallagher

‘Oh my Gawd! The silly ole fool,’ William breathed. ‘Why? Why did ’e do it, George? Surely ’e could ’ave talked about what was troublin’ ’im? We might ’ave bin able ter ’elp the poor bleeder.’

George shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I doubt if anybody could. ’Orace was a private man. ’E kept ’imself to ’imself.’

William suddenly recalled the day Horace had warned him about Mitchell. He must have been planning to take his own life then, he thought. He slumped down in Horace’s desk chair and looked across at his employer’s strained face. ‘I can’t understand what ’e said about bein’ lonely. ’E ’ad a wife, didn’t ’e, George?’ he said in a puzzled voice.

The firm’s owner made a pained grimace and nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, ’Orace ’ad a wife, that much I do know. She left ’im more than twenty years ago.’

William picked up the note again and after studying it for a few moments he looked up at his boss. ‘This bit about “only my work sustained me”. Yer wasn’t finkin’ o’ puttin’ ’im off, was yer, George?’ he asked, frowning.

Galloway shook his head vigorously. ‘’E was too valuable. ’Orace knew ’e ’ad nuffink ter worry about on that score.’

The two sat staring down at the floor in silence, then suddenly George got up and walked over to the corner of the room. He took down a ledger from the shelf and opened it on his desk. ‘Come ’ere, Will,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Take a look at this.’

William studied the unfamiliar entries and looked in puzzlement at George. ‘What is it? he asked.

‘There’s yer answer,’ the firm’s owner said positively. ‘Jus’ look at those entries. These are the latest ones. See ’ow they run inter the lines on the page? The earlier entries are much neater. ’E could ’ardly see what ’e was doin’. The poor bleeder used ter polish those glasses of ’is all the time. I thought it was just ’is nerves. That’s what ’e meant when ’e said that bit about ’is work sustainin’ ’im.’