The Girl from Cotton Lane
Read The Girl from Cotton Lane Online
Authors: Harry Bowling
Copyright © 1992 Harry Bowling
The right of Harry Bowling to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication
may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by
any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or,
in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms
of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook Headline Publishing Group in 2010
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN : 978 0 7553 8158 6
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Table of Contents
Harry Bowling was born in Bermondsey, London, and left school at fourteen to supplement the family income as an office boy in a riverside provisions’ merchant. He was called up for National Service in the 1950s. Before becoming a writer, he was variously employed as a lorry driver, milkman, meat cutter, carpenter and decorator, and community worker. He lived with his wife and family, dividing his time between Lancashire and Deptford. We at Headline are sorry to say that THE WHISPERING YEARS was Harry Bowling’s last novel, as he very sadly died in February 1999. We worked with him for over ten years, ever since the publication of his first novel, CONNER STREET’S WAR, and we miss him enormously, as do his many, many fans around the world.
The Harry Bowling Prize was set up in memory of Harry to encourage new, unpublished fiction and is sponsored by Headline. Click on
www.harrybowlingprize.net
for more information.
To my wife, Edna
Acknowledgements
With special thanks to Stephen, for his continuing and untiring assistance and expertise. Also to Mrs Nel Mason, for her specialist knowledge and help.
Chapter One
Fifteen months had passed since the end of the Great War, and now the docks and wharves of London were filling up with produce and commodities of all kinds. Along London’s fast-flowing River Thames freighters and trampers were steaming in on every tide, and the jetties and berths echoed all day long with the sounds of wheeling cranes, dockers’ shouts and curses, and the chugging of busy tugs. The dirty, oily waters of the river were lifeblood to the capital, and the steady throb of activity along its shores was as the living heart of London.
Cotton Lane in dockland Bermondsey was one of the many small cobbled streets which served the wharves, and it differed very little from other riverside throughways. It smelt of clay mud, petrol fumes and horsedung, and it was narrow and grimy. It had got its name from the bales of jute which were once landed at its high wharves. A few low hovels that had once been homes to river people were now derelict, and an empty building which was once a sailmaker’s and then a barge-builder’s premises now stood empty after its last owner, a steam-traction engineer, foundered in the changing times. The cobbled lane boasted a pub, the Bargee, which the rivermen used, but it saw very few customers once the wharf gates clanged shut. Cotton Lane had a corner shop which was a favourite eating-place of the rivermen and horse and motor drivers. The premises had recently been painted in a garish olive green and over the shopfront large gilt lettering announced it as ‘Bradley’s Dining Rooms’.
All day long the murky weather had held over the River Thames and as night closed in the February fog swirled out into the narrow cobbled lanes and backstreets of Bermondsey. It was more than an hour since the last of the horsecarts had clattered through Cotton Lane and now the fog was thickening. The sound of heavy boots in the street below faded and Carrie Bradley stretched out her stockinged feet towards the coke fire and yawned. It had been a hard day. The Danish butter freighter was in dock, and along the river wall laden barges were moored and waiting for daylight. For the next week or two there would be work enough for the rivermen, and they would shoulder their way into the dining rooms during the coming days for mugs of steaming tea and coffee, bacon sandwiches and thick slices of new bread liberally coated with dripping. It was how it had been for the past two weeks and the young woman tried to ignore her protesting muscles and her aching back as she stared into the hearth and watched the tiny flames flickering in and out of the carefully banked-up grate.
Down in the shuttered shop below Fred Bradley finished scrubbing the cutting-board and stood it on its end against the wall to dry. It was the last of his nightly chores and he looked around once more to make certain that he had not forgotten anything before going up to the room where his young wife was resting. Fred was in his mid-forties, a heavily built man with thick, dark hair that was streaked with grey above his ears. His wide-spaced eyes were dark and brooding, but there was a softness in them which mirrored his nature and which his wife Carrie found to be comforting and reassuring. It was his soft eyes that had put her at ease the first time she met him, when she timidly knocked at his door just a few years ago, the evening when Fred employed a helper and found his future wife.
Carrie eased her position in the cushioned chair and stretched again. She could hear Fred’s footsteps on the stairs and knew that her short reverie was over. There was the evening meal to prepare and Rachel to wash, feed and settle down for the night. Fred would offer to cook the meal and even wash the baby but Carrie always declined with a smile and a determined shake of her head. Her husband would have spent the whole day cooking for the steady stream of customers in the small, steamy back kitchen below and she felt that he needed a break. At first she had let him wash their three-month-old child but Fred’s face had become red and perspiration stood out on his forehead as he held the mite as though she were made of china. His large, gnarled hands had very gently stroked the soft flannel over the protesting muddle of arms and legs on his towelled lap, and when he held one leg by the ankle and it slipped from his grasp as the baby kicked, his sudden exclamation of horror had started a loud wail and reduced Carrie to a fit of laughter at her husband’s awkwardness. After that particular evening he had often volunteered to try again with the bathing, if half-heartedly, but seemed happy to be refused, though he was more confident about cooking the evening meal.
Fred’s smile was brief as he entered the small sitting-room above the street on that February evening, and he turned and entered the back room where the baby lay in her cot. Carrie could hear his cooing to the child and the answering wail of discomfort and her face became serious for a moment or two. Normally her husband would make himself comfortable beside the fire, sometimes holding their child in his arms, and make small talk as she peeled the potatoes and washed the greens, but tonight Carrie knew it would be different. He had seen Tommy Allen sitting in the dining rooms that morning and noticed the young man exchange a few words with her before he left. It was all so innocent but Fred’s face had darkened and he had become quiet as he went about his work, the occasional grunt of irritation replacing the tuneless whistling and humming that usually emanated from the kitchen. But she had made Fred aware of her involvement with Tommy Allen from the start. It was a long time ago now. He had been her lover, her first love, and now he was married. It was the first time for a long while that Tommy had come into the dining rooms for his morning break and Carrie had spotted him from the window as he pulled up outside and climbed down wearily from his horsecart. She had been more than a little taken aback by his unexpected appearance in the area and also somewhat intrigued, though she had heard from one of the carmen who frequented the cafe that the young man had recently married.
Fred came into the room and picked up the evening paper then settled himself in his usual chair. ‘Rachel needs changing,’ he said tersely.
Carrie had already gathered up the baby’s toiletries in her arms and she left the room without answering him. She felt suddenly irritable as she bent over the cot and lifted the child to her breast. Fred was a lovely man, he was warm and tender towards her, and she knew that he loved her dearly, but he had become very possessive since Rachel was born. She had never given him any reason to feel suspicious, and she certainly never encouraged any impropriety with the carmen and dockers who came regularly into the dining rooms. There was the usual bawdy banter, of course, and it had been that way ever since she first put on her white apron and began serving behind the counter. Carrie remembered those early days clearly, how Fred had praised her cheerfulness and efficiency, and had been quick to point out that the upturn in trade was largely due to her. She had soon seen the potential of his drab and neglected establishment, and now they were married the business was doing very well. It was largely due to her that Fred had been able to secure the leasehold of the cafe and build up trade by extending the seating arrangement and brightening up the fare on offer. Even when the docks and wharves were quiet the local carmen often made detours so they could eat at Bradley’s Dining Rooms. Carrie remembered with a smile how Fred had reacted when she suggested renovating the back store room and putting a few tables in there. He had been apprehensive but had gone along with her idea all the same and now the small room was a regular haunt of the local foremen and managers, as well as a meeting-place for the trade union officials who held impromptu meetings over mugs of steaming hot tea and bacon sandwiches.