Gaslight in Page Street (43 page)

‘Yer mean ...’

‘That’s right, Will. ’Orace was goin’ blind.’

Chapter Twenty-five

The evening was stormy and unseasonably cold, and outside heavy rain was falling from the dark, massed clouds that hung in the sky like a pall. Nora sat alone in the back kitchen, her slippered feet warming in front of the small open fire. The rocking-chair creaked rhythmically as she worked at tucking and tacking hems on a new pair of curtains, and she glanced up at the covered window every time she heard a loud roll of thunder. George had gone to his room soon after tea, saying he had some papers to look through, and Josephine was visiting her school friend in the house across the square. Nora welcomed the evening solitude as she threaded the needle in and out of the fabric. The last few weeks had been a very trying time for her. When she had gone to George’s room that fateful night, full of fire and indignation and ready to face her lover down, she had ended up trying to console him over his accountant’s sudden death, searching vainly for words of comfort until finally he fell into a drunken sleep.

Horace Gallagher’s suicide seemed to have affected George more badly than Nora would have predicted. He was slipping back into his old ways, becoming morose for no reason and spending a lot of time alone, and he was drinking heavily again. It worried her that he had begun to use the trap for his evening pub meetings now. Often he would return from the yard or a pub with the gelding sweating and flecks of foam spattered along its flanks, having raced it along the cobbled streets and sometimes through traffic, and then Nora found herself fearing for his life. It was a small glimmer of comfort to her that she had stayed with him on that terrible night and tried to share his grief, and he had not shut himself up in his room away from her. He appeared to have forsaken his afternoon trips out lately too, and she guessed that whatever attachment he had formed was now over. Nora knew that she had neither youth nor beauty to offer, but she felt that the love she had shared with George had been genuine, growing slowly from a feeling of needing and being needed. She considered herself to be a practical woman, and tried to make herself believe that the depression afflicting George would pass and she would be able to draw him back to her and stop his dangerous drinking.

She started from her reverie as the front door opened and closed and she heard the sound of footsteps coming along the passage. Geoffrey walked into the room, puffing loudly as he removed his sodden hat and coat and threw them over the back of a chair.

‘It’s raining cats and dogs out there, Nora,’ he said, giving her a smile. ‘Any tea in the pot?’

She made to get up but he waved her back. ‘I’ll get us some,’ he said cheerfully, taking the teapot from off the hearth.

They sat facing each other beside the fire, Nora slowly rocking back and forth with the unfinished curtains across her lap and Geoffrey sitting forward in his chair, sipping his tea thoughtfully. Outside the storm was raging unabated. Thunderclaps broke the quietness of the room.

‘The old man’s asleep by the fire,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I looked in on him as I came in.’

‘’E’s back on the drink, Geoff,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m worried about ’im.’

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s upset over Horace. It was a terrible shock to all of us but Father’s taken it badly,’ he remarked, staring into the fire. ‘It’s strange really. All the years Horace worked for us and we knew practically nothing about the man. He never socialised with Dad, at least not that I know of. All the time he was in the office, his head was bent over the ledgers. He kept them in tiptop order. He was always on hand with advice about money matters, and I suppose we came to see him as part of the furniture. He wasn’t the sort of man you could have a casual conversation with.’

Nora nodded her head sadly. ‘Yer farvver showed me the letter ’Orace left be’ind before ’e took it ter the police station. Loneliness is a terrible fing. I know what it’s like.’

They were silent for a while, both staring into the fire, then Geoffrey frowned and stretched out his legs.

‘The old man was asking me about Mary,’ he said suddenly. ‘He wanted to know if it was her I was walking out with.’

‘I’m surprised George remembers anything o’ that weddin’, considerin’ the state ’e was in,’ Nora replied. ‘What did yer tell ’im?’

‘I told him the girl at the wedding was just someone I’d met and she wasn’t the girl I’m seeing,’ he said ruefully.

‘Why, Geoff ? Why not tell ’im the truth? Nothing good can come out of deceivin’ yer farvver. ’E’s got ter know one day,’ Nora warned him.

Geoffrey sighed as he stared into the flickering flames, then he raised his eyes to hers. ‘He’s never understood me, Nora,’ he said sadly. ‘He wants me to marry and give him an heir. He’s set standards for me and I’m expected to conform. How could I bring Mary home and tell him she’s a married woman? He’d shun her and we’d get to arguing. No, I’ll just carry on seeing her and leave things the way they are for the present.’

‘I’ve only met ’er the once but she seems a nice young lady,’ Nora said, taking up her sewing. ‘D’yer fink she’ll get a divorce eventually?’

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, Nora. I guess not. We’ll go on seeing each other, and when the old man asks me why I don’t bring her home I’ll do the same as I’m doing now, I’ll make excuses.’

Nora shook her head sadly. ‘It seems such a shame. Fings could be so different,’ she said quietly.

Geoffrey looked up at Nora and suddenly felt sad for her. She was a good woman and he knew of the love she had for his father. It was all too plain in the way she spoke of him and in the way she looked at him. His father was treating her badly by ignoring her and drinking to excess, knowing how she hated it. Nora was right, he thought, things could be so different.

Later that summer a small group of Bermondsey publicans staged their first illegal boxing tournament in the Crown, a seedy public house near Dockhead. The pub was a regular haunt of the Russian and Scandinavian merchant seamen who manned the timber ships that sailed into nearby Surrey Docks, and it attracted a regular crowd of prostitutes who plied their trade inside and outside. The women had a lot of business and guarded their patch well. Strange faces who were seen to be soliciting soon found themselves roughly thrown out of the pub with a warning of what they could expect if they had the temerity to show up in the area again.

The group of publicans who called themselves the Bermondsey Beer Boys saw the Crown as an ideal site for their first meeting. The merchant seamen had money in their pockets and could be relied upon to lay fair-size bets on the fights, with due encouragement and prompting from the prostitutes who had a special arrangement with Fat Donald McBain the landlord. The Crown also had a large back yard with a bolt-hole, a back gate opening on to a riverside alley that led to a warren of backstreets.

The Bermondsey Beer Boys were careful to keep the tournament a secret from the general public. Only their most well-known and trusted customers were invited, along with street bookmakers who paid for the privilege. Each of the publicans had his own fighter and put up the stake money on him as well as making side bets. Certain trusted outsiders were allowed to bring along their own fighters and supporters providing they staked the fighter and were responsible for the behaviour of the camp followers. The Bermondsey Beer Boys insisted that the rules must be enforced, for if the police or the breweries got to hear of what was taking place in the pubs, the landlords concerned would most definitely lose their licences.

The contests were scheduled to go for twenty rounds with a knock-down counting as the end of the round, as in the bare-knuckle fairground fights. The contestants would wear standard-size gloves that were little better than ordinary leather gloves. The padding was minimal, and the facial scars and cauliflower ears on some of the older fighters testified to the damage they caused.

The marquee that had been hastily erected in the back yard of the Crown and lit with Tilley lamps was filling with excited spectators. There was a ring in the middle of the covered area and the floor of the roped arena was strewn with sawdust. People were crowding on to the benches that were placed around the ring, and at the back of the marquee the street bookmakers stood chewing on cigars and passing out betting-slips.

There was a sudden hush as the fighters emerged from the changing-room behind the saloon bar and marched into the marquee. Each had a blanket draped round his shoulders. As Jake Mitchell ducked under the ropes for his contest there was complete silence, but when his opponent got into the ring loud clapping broke out.

George Galloway stood beside Jake, leaning on the ropes and eyeing the other fighter closely. ‘Now remember what I said, Jake. ’E comes in like a bull so watch ’is barnet. ’E’s young an’ full of ’imself so be careful, an’ don’t let the crowd see yer use yer thumbs. It looks like some of ’em ’ave taken a shine ter the boy.’

‘I gathered that much,’ Jake growled, banging his clenched fists together and glaring over at his young opponent.

Don McBain ducked under the ropes to perform the ceremonies and Galloway looked around the ring, nodding to acquaintances and nervously chewing on his fat cigar. Mitchell was introduced as ‘Battling Jake Mitchell from the East End’ amidst a few boos and cat-calls. The young Scottish fighter whom McBain had brought down from the Glasgow Gorbals was presented simply as ‘Jock McIver’ and the announcement brought forth loud cheers and clapping. Galloway had learned about the Scot from McBain, who had bragged about his man and described his technique when the two of them were drinking together. Galloway felt that the young fighter was ideal fodder for the rougher and more experienced Jake, and had made a few sizeable bets on his man at fair odds.

The marquee was becoming filled with smoke and the noise died down as the crowd waited for battle to begin. An impatient timekeeper sitting at a small table beside the ring rang a handbell to start the fight and the two contestants moved confidently out of their corners.

As Galloway had predicted the young fighter rushed Mitchell, his fists flailing. The older fighter took most of the blows on his arms but one sharp jab caught him on the nose and as he jerked back blood started to trickle down on to his chin. Mitchell was undaunted. He moved into the centre of the ring and stood his ground as the younger man charged in again with his head held low. He could hear the crowd willing the Scot on, and as they clinched moved his left arm under his opponent’s head. Mitchell had fought in boxing booths around the country and knew that the boy was little more than a novice, strong and brave perhaps but unprepared for his devious tactics. He brought his hand up sharply and with his thumb prodded the young Scot in the eye, his foul play shielded from the crowd by the man’s lowered head.

They parted and moved around in the middle of the ring and Mitchell could see his opponent blinking his right eye as he tried to clear his sight. The tactic had worked and Mitchell felt confident, since his left hook was his best punch and it would be coming from the Scot’s blind side. As the young man rushed him again, Jake looped his left fist round. His opponent did not see it until it landed hard on his temple. He staggered slightly and shook his head, holding his hand close to his face as he prepared to come forward again. His raw courage was his undoing. Instead of keeping out of reach until his head had cleared, the Scot charged in again and Mitchell caught him with another looping left hand that sank him to his knees. The crowd were disappointed as the young man was half dragged back to his corner, and Jake Mitchell grinned cheekily to the booing punters.

As the contest went on the young man’s spirit and endurance began to wear down against Mitchell’s experience and his face was becoming bloody. His eyes were swollen, blood was dripping from his nose and his lips were split. He managed to stay on his feet for the duration of each round until the fifth, when he was caught by a swingeing blow and dropped like a stone. Mitchell felt sure that the young man was finished, but to his astonishment he climbed painfully to his feet and staggered to his corner.

When the Scot came back out he seemed to have gained a second wind, bobbing and weaving his way out of trouble until the bell ended the round. Galloway was becoming worried. He had wagered heavily on his fighter and he could see that Mitchell was tiring. He had never had to go the whole twenty rounds, and it seemed that unless he could despatch his man in the next round or two, youth and stamina would beat him.

The betting was changing now. The odds were lengthening, and with the outcome of the fight still unsure Galloway laid down another bet. It was all or nothing now. He realised that he stood to lose a lot of money unless his fighter pulled something out of the hat. The appointed second was working hard on Mitchell, dousing him with water and whispering words of advice in his ear, and when the timekeeper reached for his bell to start the next round Galloway bit through his unlighted cigar.

The men traded punches in the middle of the ring and Mitchell was gasping for breath. The young Scot tried to keep his opponent on his left side, and the crowd were cheering every blow that he landed. Suddenly they were in a clinch. Mitchell used his thumb again, bringing it up sharply and stabbing his opponent in the left eye. As they broke apart Mitchell knew that he had his man now. The youngster was blinking and moving his head from left to right, trying to focus his eyes. Mitchell gathered his flagging strength and moved in, swinging a flurry of left and right hooks in a desperate frenzy. A hard left swipe caught the Scot on the point of his chin and he went down and rolled over on to his face. Jake had felt the jar right up to his shoulder, and knew instinctively that the young man’s fight was over. He was dragged to his corner still unconscious, and when the bell rang to start the twelfth round a towel was thrown into the centre of the ring. There was barely any applause as Mitchell ducked under the ropes and with a blanket draped around his heaving shoulders walked wearily out of the marquee, without glancing back at his defeated opponent.