The Girl from Cotton Lane (12 page)

‘But you’re entitled to a job, aren’t you?’ Annie said with a frown. ‘The way I understand it firms are obliged to take on disabled men from the war.’

Billy laughed bitterly. ‘Don’t yer believe it,’ he said. ‘I know loads o’ blokes who can’t get work through their war wounds. They told us it was gonna be a land fit fer ’eroes when we got back from France, but they soon changed their tune. It’s always the same story when yer go fer a job. “Sorry mate, we’re full up.” Or: “Yer won’t be able ter manage the job, pal.” What the bloody ’ell do they want us ter do - sell shoelaces an’ collar studs in the gutter?’

Annie hardly noticed him swear. She turned to look at him as they reached the park gates. ‘Have you tried for many jobs?’ she asked.

Billy gave her a sheepish grin. ‘Well, ter tell yer the trufe this is me first interview,’ he told her. ‘I didn’t ’ave the guts ter go fer a job before, yer see. I ’eard enough tales from me mates. It was always the same story so I said ter meself, “Billy,” I said, “yer wastin’ yer time even bovverin’ ter fink about it. Yer might as well go an’ jump in the river.” Mind yer, I never would,’ he added with a grin.

‘But that’s awful,’ Annie said with feeling. ‘What have you been doing since you got out of the army?’

‘Sittin’ around mostly,’ he replied. ‘I used ter sit at me front door when the weavver was good, an’ when it was cold I used ter lay in bed till dinner-time. There was no use in gettin’ up, I thought ter meself. Anyway, I’m goin’ fer a job now, but I tell yer, Annie, if they turn me down that’s me lot. I won’t try again.’

The young woman felt her stomach flutter as he said her name. It sounded very strange to hear him call her by her Christian name. It was the first time as far as she could remember that any male person had done so since she left the convent school, where the visiting priest would call all the girls by their first names. Mr Bradley called her miss, and even the local doctor called her Miss McCafferty whenever he had reason to talk to her about her charges. Billy had been the first man to call her Annie and she felt strangely pleased.

They were out in the street and making their way back to Cotton Lane, and Billy had obviously decided to walk beside her as far as possible. Annie felt suddenly daring. ‘Have you got a young lady friend? I mean, are you walking out steady with anyone?’ she asked him.

Billy shook his head. ‘Nah. I ain’t tried very much,’ he said, giving her a shy grin. ‘Yer need money ter ask a young lady out. I prob’ly will though. If I get this job, that is.’

They had reached the corner of Bacon Street. ‘Well, it’s bin nice talkin’ ter yer, Annie,’ he said, giving her a warm smile. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘I certainly will,’ she said, returning his smile.

He walked off, shuffling along with his hands tucked deep in his coat pockets and his shoulders hunched and swaying as he moved. Annie stood watching him for a few moments. It had been a very unexpected meeting, she thought, and it had made her feel strangely elated. It was the first time she had allowed herself to get into conversation with any man, and it was not the frightening experience she had thought it would be. Billy Sullivan was very polite and proper, if a blasphemer, but he had used the wicked words with passion, unable to express just what he felt in any other way. He knew her name too. Danny Tanner must have told him about her. What had he said? she wondered. Had the two friends discussed her in the way men probably did when they looked at a young woman who passed them in the street? She had noticed men leering at her and whispering to each other with dirty grins on their faces. No, there was nothing lecherous in Billy’s conversation. He had been very proper and courteous to her. There was just that brief moment when his eyes seemed to appraise her. But that was the way of men. It was what she had been told by the sisters at the convent. Well, if she ever met Billy Sullivan on the street again she would feel less inhibited about talking with him, as long as he remained proper, she told herself with a smile.

Rachel was crying now and Annie spoke a few comforting words to her as she set off pushing the pram along the shabby street.

In the little turning that ran off Bacon Street Florrie Axford, Aggie Temple and Maisie Dougall were standing together with Nellie Tanner and Sadie Sullivan at Aggie’s front door. The Saturday afternoon was fine, with soft clouds drifting in a blue sky. The sun had moved behind the rooftops and it cast shadows halfway up the little houses on the opposite side of the turning.

Florrie dipped down into her apron pocket and pulled out her tiny silver snuffbox. ‘I ain’t bin a-pictures fer ages now,’ she said. ‘Last time I went ter the pictures it was up the Grand picture ’ouse in Grange Road. I went wiv ole Mrs Watson who lived next door ter me. Yer remember ole Mrs Watson. She moved away years ago. The Keystone Cops it was, or was it Buster Keaton? I can’t remember fer certain. Anyway, I know I walked out ’alfway through the film.’

‘Wasn’t it any good then, Flo?’ Maisie asked.

‘Nah, it wasn’t the show, it was ’er. Fair gave me the ’ump she did. Goin’ on about the seats all the time she was. Mind yer, we only went in the cheapest seats. ’Ave yer ever bin up the Grand?’

Everyone shook their heads with the exception of Aggie.

‘My ’Arold took me up there once,’ she said. ‘We went in the best seats. They was plush ones. Nice an’ comfy too. If I remember rightly the cheap seats were wooden ones wiv backrests. I told my ’Arold I wasn’t goin’ in no wooden seats. Mind yer, ’e likes ter give me the best, does my ’Arold.’

Florrie caught Nellie’s eye and pulled a face. ‘My first ole man said that ter me once. All I ever got from ’im was the back of ’is ’and.’

Sadie Sullivan folded her arms and leaned back against the doorjamb. ‘Well, I’d never let a man knock me about,’ she said with passion. ‘If my Daniel lifted a finger ter me I’d open ’im. Mind yer, ’e ain’t that sort. Soft as butter ’e is. In fact it’s me what ’as ter keep my crowd in order. D’yer know that Billy o’ mine don’t take a blind bit o’ notice when Daniel talks to ’im, but ’e soon listens ter me. I’d give ’im the back o’ me ’and big as ’e is, an’ ’e knows it. It’s the same wiv the twins. They know ’ow far ter go. Pat’s a bit lippy at times but I don’t get no sauce out o’ Terry. ’E’s always bin the quiet one. Young Shaun’s takin’ after Billy though. ’E seems ter be runnin’ round wiv a right rough crowd. Joe tried ter put ’im wise an’ it nearly come ter blows. I dunno, the older they get the more trouble they seem ter be. Sometimes I wish they was all youngsters again, at least yer could put ’em ter bed an’ know where they all were.’

Nellie nodded. ‘Your Shaun’s got big lately, Sadie,’ she remarked. ‘’Ow old is ’e now?’

‘Shaun’s twenty, the twins are twenty-one this year, an’ Joe’s just turned twenty-two. Michael would ’ave bin twenty-four an’ John twenty-five,’ Sadie told her, suddenly taking out a handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbing at her eyes.

‘My James would ’ave bin twenty-eight this year,’ Nellie said sadly.

Florrie took a pinch of snuff and looked up at the sky, waiting for the inevitable sneeze, and Aggie stepped back a pace. She could not abide snuff-taking and was always going on about Florrie Axford’s nasty habits. The women of Page Street were very close friends, however, and even Aggie’s fastidiousness tended to be overlooked by the rest of the women. She was nearly seventy and still very sprightly for her age. Her hair was grey and well cared for and her apron was invariably spotless. Aggie’s husband was five years younger than her and about to retire that year. He had lit and extinguished the lamps of Bermondsey for over thirty years, and now, she confided to her friends in vexation, he was going to be under her feet.

Florrie told her in no uncertain terms that she would have to get used to it. ‘Yer lucky, Aggie. At least ’e’s a good-un. Yer just ’ave ter ease up on yer tidyin’ up, or yer’ll drive ’im right roun’ the twist. There’s nuffink worse than watchin’ people workin’ around yer.’

Aggie snorted. ‘Well, I’ll still ’ave ter keep me place clean. It’s bad enough wiv that bleedin’ cat old Broom’ead the totter got me. It stinks the place out at times, an’ I told ’im too. Mind yer, all I got was a load o’ lip. Bloody ole goat ’e is. If my ’Arold ’ad ’eard ’im goin’ on ’e would ’ave put ’is lights out.’

Maisie Dougall had been listening to her friends going on and she thought it was about time she made a contribution. Maisie was a plump woman in her fifties who always wore her dark hair in a bun at the back of her head. ‘I saw Broom’ead goin’ in the Galloway yard the ovver day,’ she told the gathering. ‘’E came out loaded up wiv old iron. I fink they’ve got rid o’ that chaff-cutter. I’ve not ’eard it goin’ lately.’

Nellie looked along the turning to the Galloway firm’s gates, a hard look in her eye as the bitter memories locked up inside her stirred once more. She thought of the time George Galloway had come to her home while her husband was off work with badly bruised ribs and told them that he was giving William a week’s notice. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, and she had made her feelings plain to the man her husband had been friends with since his childhood. The two men had been Bermondsey waifs together, living on their wits and sleeping beneath the damp, infested arches in the dirt and rubbish. Galloway had made his way in life and was now a successful businessman. He owned half the houses in Page Street as well as his flourishing transport concern. William had been his yard foreman, caring for the horses as well as being in charge of the carmen, and yet all the years of friendship and good service had in the end counted for nothing. Nellie had grown to detest the very mention of Galloway and she turned to her friends in disgust. ‘I’d like ter see the ’ole bloody place pulled down. Galloway’s give our family enough ’eartaches,’ she said bitterly.

Florrie had been very friendly with Nellie for many years and she nodded sympathetically. ‘Don’t I know it,’ she said quickly. ‘I tell yer what though, Nell. That young Galloway ain’t no better than ’is ole man. I reckon ’e’s turnin’ out worse. Yer wanna ’ear the carmen who work there go on about ’im. There was two of ’em chattin’ away outside my winder the ovver day. I could ’ear everyfing they was sayin’. The names they was callin’ that Frank Galloway. Apparently ’e’s took over there fer good. Yer don’t see much o’ the ole man these days.’

‘I saw ole George Galloway drivin in the yard in that pony-an’-trap of ’is the ovver day,’ Aggie said. ‘Whippin’ that poor ’orse ’e was. ’E looked really fat an’ bloated. Mind yer, I fink it’s the booze. ’E always liked the drink.’

‘Pity ’e don’t spend a bit more on these ’ouses,’ Florrie remarked acidly. ‘My place is lettin’ in water again. It’s comin’ in from the roof. All those roofs want doin’. I’ve told the rent collector, if there’s nuffink done I’m gonna stop payin’ me rent.’

‘Fat lot o’ good that’ll do yer,’ Nellie said. ‘If yer miss payin’ ’e’ll do the same as ’e did wiv us. Yer’ll be out on the street.’

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Florrie replied with spirit. ‘I’m goin’ down the Town ’All an’ ’ave a word wiv that medical bloke. They say ’e’s all right ter talk to. I’ll make that ole goat do the repairs, you see if I don’t.’

The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Maudie Mycroft. She was looking decidedly worried as she put down her shopping bag. ‘My Ernie’s joined the Communist Party,’ she announced gravely.

‘Oh my Gawd!’ Florrie exclaimed, rolling her eyes in feigned terror. ‘We’ll all end up bein’ murdered in our beds, I’m sure we will.’

‘It’s no laughin’ matter,’ Maudie rebuked her. ‘I’m worried out o’ me life. I said to ’im, “Whatever made yer do it, Ernie?” An’ ’e said, “All workers ’ave got ter rise up against the bosses an’ seize the means o’ production, an’ that day’s not far orf.” I’m worried sick. I mean ter say, Ernie’s not bin very interested in those sort o’ fings in the past. D’yer know, I ’ad ter nag at ’im ter cast ’is vote before now. It’s those men at the docks. There’s a lot o’ Bolsheviks workin’ there, yer know.’

‘What the bleedin’ ’ell’s Bolsheviks?’ Maisie asked, scratching the side of her head.

‘It’s them troublemakers from Russia,’ Florrie told her. ‘They’re out ter overfrow the Government.’ With a wry smile she added, ‘They’ll fink I’m a Bolshevik when I go down that Council on Monday mornin’.’

Maudie had been expecting a better response from her friends, or at the very least a little sympathy, but they seemed not to care. ‘D’yer know they’re atheists?’ she said hopefully.

‘What, the Council?’ Sadie asked.

‘No, the Bolsheviks,’ Maudie said impatiently. ‘Our vicar was tellin’ us about the people who are leadin’ the uprisin’ in Russia. They don’t believe in God, an’ ’e knows all about such fings.’

‘Who, God?’ Sadie asked, hiding a smile.

‘No, Reverend Jones. ’E told us on Sunday at the sermon. Gawd knows what I’m gonna go,’ Maudie groaned. ‘If the people at the church find out Ernie’s turned Bolshevik I won’t be able ter old me ’ead up in there ever again.’

‘Sounds like ole Reverend Jones is tryin’ ter frighten yer, if yer ask me,’ Florrie remarked.

Maudie Mycroft could see she was wasting her time seeking sympathy from the women and she picked up her shopping bag. ‘Well, I’ll best be orf,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ve got no time ter stand chattin’.’

The women watched her leave and when she was out of earshot Florrie turned to the others. ‘Yer know, I fink she’s goin’ roun’ the twist,’ she said, stifling a wicked grin. ‘It’s that muvvers’ meetin’ what’s doin’ it, I’m sure it is. Ole Granny Watson was like ’er. Wouldn’t miss a meetin’, an’ one day she started goin’ a bit funny. It’s wicked really but I ’ad ter laugh. There she was out in the street in ’er nightshift shoutin’ out at the top of ’er voice.’