The Girl from Cotton Lane (10 page)

Carrie shook her head decisively. ‘If we did that the men would turn on us. We might just as well shut up shop. Besides, I fink they do a good job. It’s not only money they argue about. It’s the men’s welfare an’ their rights. Yer know that yerself.’

Fred had to agree, and he smiled at the passion in his pretty young wife’s voice. She herself had campaigned for women’s rights with the suffragette movement when she was in her teens and he had listened to her tales of the marches and the abuse the women suffered at the hands of many people.

‘I s’pose it’s all a question o’ roots,’ he said quietly. ‘None of us can sit on the fence. It’s eivver the workers or the bosses. Point is, where do I stand? I’ve bin a worker an’ now I’m a boss yer might say. I employ Bessie an’ I run a business.’

‘We run the business,’ Carrie reminded him with a severe look. ‘Anyway, we’ll jus’ ’ave ter see. P’raps it’ll all blow over.’

‘I ’ope ter Gawd it does,’ Fred said with passion.

The cool and rainy spring gave way to warm summer days and still the threatened General Strike had not taken place. Things looked more hopeful now that the Poles were in full retreat and an end to the war was in sight. The government had not intervened in the dockers’ ban, and although they supported the Poles against the Bolsheviks they were aware of the general feelings amongst the working classes, which were expressed vociferously at workers’ meetings throughout the country. ‘No More War’ was crudely scrawled in white paint on the brick wall of a wharf in Cotton Lane, and further along the narrow riverside turning the message ‘Hands off Soviet Russia’ appeared overnight. Many local folk who earned their living on or from the river were still worried about what would happen in the end, but one man busy in his small yard behind the bustling Tower Bridge Road market did not give international events a second thought.

Broomhead Smith had managed to get Aggie Temple a tabby tomcat which was the best mouser in the Borough, so he told her. The cat’s owner was leaving the area and could not keep the animal, and she wanted it to have a nice home. In fact the woman was fed up with the smell that the tomcat caused about the place and was glad to be shot of it. What was more, there had been a growing number of mice in her house of late and she put it down to the age of the animal. Broomhead did not see fit to let Aggie know this and hoped that a change of abode might revitalise the tomcat’s flagging performance.

At the moment the crafty totter had other, more profitable things to think about and he whistled to himself as he gave the cabinet yet another coat of wax. The scratches had been hidden and it now shone like new. It had been in his possession for quite a while and Broomhead felt it was about time he sold the thing. He had originally intended to polish up the wood and sell it for five shillings, but when he was fortunate enough to obtain the gramophone he realised he should repair the machine and install it in the cabinet. He could then expect to get around four pounds ten shillings. When he dismantled the gramophone, however, he saw that the spring had become dislodged from its mounting and needed a new clip. For ages he had been meaning to call in at a place down by the Elephant and Castle where they sold gramophone parts, but it was not until this morning that he had finally got around to it. Now he had managed to install the clip he was not at all sure whether he had done the job correctly. At least the handle turned, and to his surprise the turntable revolved, if rather slowly, when he moved the lever. He tried out a badly scratched recording of Dame Nellie Melba singing an operatic aria from
Pagliacci
which he had found tucked away between a box of rusting tools and a sack of potatoes in the corner of his shed. The recording sounded terrible to his untrained ears, but the horse seemed to enjoy it. It had stopped munching away in its stall, pricked up its ears and jerked its head up and down at the powerful voice of the world-famous soprano.

Broomhead shook his head in resigned disbelief and set about installing the gramophone in its housing. It was a bit small for the wooden supports at the top of the cabinet but the totter got around that problem by nailing a couple of slats of wood on to the supports to act as a base. It did not look very neat, he had to admit, but unless the prospective buyer looked down into the cabinet the bodgery would not be discovered.

Brookhead Smith loaded the cabinet with the gramophone inside it on to the back of his cart, then he looked around the shed to see if there were any more records lying about. He could not find any and he realised that it would be the voice of Dame Melba which rang out in the backstreets as he advertised the fact that he had a gramophone for sale. That horn doesn’t look too good though, he thought, scratching his head and glaring at the disinterested horse, which had stepped back on it while it was lying with the rest of the dismantled bits on the floor of the shed. Broomhead had managed partly to knock out the large dent in the horn but he had taken off a fair amount of paint in the process. ‘Well, what do they expect for four an’ ’alf quid?’ he asked the nag.

One hour later the sonorous tones of Dame Melba’s singing resonated through a little backstreet near the river. A few windows were flung open, and two little lads pelted Broomhead with rotten apples before they were chased off. An old gent stopped in his tracks and raised his face to the sky, listening intently as he leaned on his walking stick.

‘I reco’nise that voice. Who is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s Dame Melba. She used ter sing at the Star in Abbey Street,’ Broomhead informed him.

‘Wasn’t that the one who sung “Some o’ These Days”?’ the old man asked.

‘Nah. That’s Sophie Tucker’s song,’ Broomhead said knowledgeably.

‘Well, she sounds like Sophie Tucker.’

‘Well, she ain’t,’ Broomhead told him sharply.

‘I know who it is,’ the old man said chuckling. ‘She’s the one who sings that there “Darktown Strutters’ Ball”.’

‘Nah it ain’t! That’s Sophie Tucker’s song as well,’ the by now thoroughly irritated totter informed him.

‘Are yer figurin’ on sellin’ that there contraption then?’ the ancient character asked.

‘Nah. I play the poxy fing ter stop me ’orse fallin’ asleep,’ Broomhead growled at him.

‘Bloody fing looks ready fer the knackers’ yard. A good feed wouldn’t do it any ’arm,’ the old man growled back.

‘Look, mate. Ain’t yer got any ’ome ter go to?’ the totter asked. ‘I’ve got a livin’ ter make.’

‘I’m sure that’s the young woman who sings “Some o’ These Days”. If it ain’t it’s the spittin’ image of ’er,’ the old man persisted.

Broomhead had had enough, realising that the old gent was quite content to stay there all day nattering. He picked up the reins in a temper and slapped them hard across the horse’s back. Surprised at being disturbed so roughly the nag jerked forward suddenly, the jolt snapped the rickety bodged-up slatting and the gramophone fell into the bottom of the cabinet. There was a loud clang and Broomhead cursed vehemently, pulling on the reins. The horse was totally confused by now and it eased forward in the shafts not knowing what to do next, until Broomhead reminded it with a few well-chosen obscenities. ‘The poxy spring,’ he said to himself.

The old man had set off too and as he caught up with the cart he looked up at the fuming totter. ‘Yer didn’t go far. Wassa matter then?’ he asked innocently.

‘It’s the spring.’

‘What yer say?’

‘I said the spring’s gone.’

The old man nodded. ‘Yeah. Still, I like the summer better. Always did. A drop o’ sun makes yer feel better in yerself. I can’t stan’ the winter. Winter’s no good fer the ole folk. Gets ter yer bones it does. That’s when the likes of us drop orf, yer know. It’s yer pneumonia what does it.’

Broomhead had been staring ahead scowling and suddenly he turned to face the old man. ‘Look, dad. Why don’t yer piss orf ’ome?’ he growled. ‘They’ll be sendin’ a search party out fer yer in a minute.’

‘Gertcha! Yer saucy young pup! Why don’t yer piss orf out of our street? Go on, ’oppit!’ the old gent croaked, aiming at Broomhead with his stick and only managing to hit the side of the cart.

The horse got the message and set off once more at a lively gait. This time the aggravated totter did not try to stop it. Instead he sat slumped down in his seat and let the animal have its head, wishing he had thrown the gramophone in the dustbin in the first place.

The docks remained busy throughout the long hot summer months, but as winter drew in there was more trouble brewing as the miners went on strike for better pay. Don Jacobs the dockers’ leader spoke of his fears to Carrie one quiet afternoon in the back room of the cafe after his meeting was over.

‘I don’t wanna frighten yer, gel, but I feel there’s a general slump in the makin’,’ he said resignedly. ‘Yer’ve only gotta read between the lines in the newspapers. World trade is fallin’ an’ there’s a lot of unemployment about. They reckon it’s up to a million now.’

Carrie leaned on the table and looked closely at the middle-aged man sitting facing her. He was well read and intelligent, she knew, he was respected by his men, and from what she had gathered he was a natural leader who always dealt firmly but fairly with the employers to get the best deal he could. He had a few enemies amongst the more militant dockers but he had many loyal friends too, and many had told Carrie that they would follow him without question. As she looked into his concerned eyes Carrie saw something else. Don Jacobs looked frightened.

‘But why should it be?’ she asked.

Don ran his finger along a crack in the table and shook his head slowly. ‘I dunno. The whole of Europe’s in a turmoil, politically speakin’. There was a lot of expectations o’ trade across the continent after the war finished. It’s not come about to any large degree an’ there’s bin a lot o’ firms that invested in what’s turned out ter be a pipe dream. A lot o’ the businesses went bankrupt an’ it’s made a difference ter the amount of unemployed people around the country. ’Course they’re not the only reasons, but those fings ’ave got a lot ter do wiv it. It’s times like these when my job is made very difficult. I’m pledged ter get the best fer me men, an’ the bosses jus’ keep remindin’ me about the number out o’ collar. I don’t need remindin’, Carrie. I’m no fool.’

She gave him a warm smile. ‘I know yer not by what yer men say. I only ’ope it don’t come to a General Strike, Don. D’yer fink it will?’

He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Well, if it does the first out’ll be the dockers and railwaymen. They’ll support the miners. Then the transport workers are bound ter foller their lead. The whole country could go ter the wall. Gawd almighty, I ’ope it never comes ter that. We all ’ope that, don’t we?’

Carrie got up to bring the union man some more tea and when she returned with two filled mugs she sat down heavily. ‘D’yer know, Don,’ she said, ‘me an’ Fred ’ave worked really ’ard ter get this place on its feet. Fred was a bit reluctant ter make changes, but ’e agreed. I want it ter work fer ’is sake as well as mine.’

‘Well, yer certainly made changes, gel,’ Don assured her. ‘’Avin’ this place fer our meetin’s is a boon. It’s much better than standin’ out on the cobbles like we used ter do. Fred’s all right about it, ain’t ’e?’

Carrie smiled. ‘Fred lets me make the decisions, an’ it was my idea ter sort this back room out.’

‘Are you an’ Fred all right?’ Don asked suddenly.

Carrie was taken by surprise at his question and her first instinct was to give him a sharp reply, but she nodded instead, catching the look of concern in Don’s deep brown eyes. ‘Fred’s a very nice man,’ she said quietly. ‘’E loves Rachel an’ ’e’d give me the top brick off the chimney if I asked ’im, but ’e’s a worrier. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doin’ the right fing by ’im when I suggest we do this or that. I want us ter prosper fer a number o’ reasons, Don,’ she said with conviction. ‘I want it fer me an’ Fred, I want it fer Rachel, an’ I want it fer me mum an’ dad. I wanna get enough be’ind me so I can look after ’em all. Am I bein’ greedy?’

The union man laughed and touched her arm fondly. ‘Yer not bein’ greedy, luv,’ he replied smiling. ‘Yer doin’ it fer all the best reasons. Nobody’s gonna give yer anyfing. Yer gotta work fer what yer get. I found that out soon enough. I started out bein’ apprenticed ter this firm o’ lightermen, jus’ like your Danny. I soon found out ’ow dangerous an’ uncertain the job was. We used ter fight over work, an’ there’s still a scramble at times, let me tell yer. Fings are changin’ now though, an’ it’s not come about by the kindness o’ the employers. Mind yer there’s good an’ bad bosses, but it’s the solidarity of the workers what’s ringin’ the changes. It’s like what’s ’appenin’ over in Russia. Workers are risin’ against the poverty and ’ardship. They wanna eat square meals an’ they wanna ’ave some quality in their lives. They wanna be looked after when they’re sick an’ ’ave proper education fer their kids. That ain’t so bad, is it?’

Carrie was taken by the obvious sincerity of the man and she could only nod.

‘Jus’ look at what’s goin’ on wiv the miners,’ Don went on. ‘They’re not only fightin’ fer better wages. They want better safety standards an’ better facilities at the pit’ead. They ’ave ter walk back ’ome black as the coal they’ve bin diggin’ out. They often work sprawled out on their bellies an’ they never know if they’re gonna see the light o’ day again when they step in that pit cage. At least our blokes work in the open air, though that’s prob’ly the only good fing about the work. It’s ’ard an’ often dangerous, an’ everyfing depends on the river. Ole Farvver Thames can be a treacherous ole bleeder at times. Yer can never take ’im fer granted. Sometimes the tides run fast an’ sometimes a man gets the feelin’ ’e can swim across from shore ter shore with ease when it’s runnin’ slow. There’s dangerous eddies that pull yer under. It’s a muddy, filfy river, but it’s the lifeblood of London. It always ’as bin, from the early times.’