The Girl from Cotton Lane (17 page)

Maitland’s eyes opened wide. ‘Where was it, Will?’ he asked quickly.

‘’E come in Galloway’s yard once. Some time ago it was. ’E was in the trap wiv George Galloway.’

‘Galloway?’ Joe repeated.

Will nodded. ‘It come ter me yesterday mornin’ right out the blue. I’d bin puzzlin’ over where I’d seen ’im. ’Ave yer got any reason ter fink Galloway might wanna see yer business go up in smoke?’ he asked.

Joe shook his head. ‘It might only be a coincidence that geezer bein’ wiv Galloway,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I can’t fink of anyfing I’ve done that would make George Galloway wanna put me out o’ business. I don’t fink ’e knows I was involved in that ter-do at the Crown. Anyway, I remember when we ’ad that chat at your Carrie’s weddin’. Yer said then that there was a limit to ’ow far Galloway would go ter get what ’e wants.’

William smiled bitterly. ‘I mus’ confess I underestimated the man. George Galloway would do a deal wiv the devil ’imself if there was anyfing in it fer ’im. The man’s gettin’ on in years now, as a matter o’ fact ’e’s a couple o’ years older than me an’ I’m sixty-two, but I found out ter me cost that ’e ain’t mellowed wiv age. All I’d say is, I wouldn’t put anyfing past ’im if I were you, Joe. Even if George ’imself draws a line there’s that son of ’is. I reckon Frank Galloway’ll turn out every bit as bad as the ole man, if not worse.’

‘Is ’e runnin’ the firm?’ Joe asked.

‘Well, accordin’ ter the carmen who work there Frank’s runnin’ the business day ter day, but George Galloway still pulls the strings,’ William told him.

‘The ole fing’s a mystery ter me,’ Joe said, shaking his head slowly.

‘Yer said yer didn’t fink that business at the Crown ’ad anyfing ter do wiv what ’appened, Joe. Don’t yer fink Galloway could’ve cottoned on some’ow?’ William asked. ‘Don’t ferget ’e was pretty much involved wiv those tournaments.’

‘’E wasn’t involved in what ’appened ter my bruvver though,’ Joe replied. ‘That much I do know. No, I fink it’s somefing else. I’ve jus’ got ter be careful, an’ you too, Will. Don’t go openin’ those doors unless yer know who it is, an’ I shouldn’t say anyfing ter the police yet. Let me make a few more enquiries first. By the way, I’m gettin’ a young man in ter take Benny’s place. ’E’s a bit slow upstairs, but there’s nobody gonna take liberties wiv ’im, Will. Wait till yer see ’im. ’E’s startin’ termorrer. Yer’ll get on wiv ’im jus’ fine. Oh, an’ before I ferget it, there’s four dozen boxes comin’ in later terday by Carter Paterson. Mind ’ow yer treat ’em, they’re breakables,’ he said grinning.

When Carrie opened the front door to Annie McCafferty on a bright Monday morning she was shocked to see the sad look on the young woman’s face. She was saddened too when Annie told her that she was going over to Ireland within the next two weeks and would not be back for some time. Carrie was upset at the news but she could understand and sympathise with Annie’s decision. The sisters at St Mary’s Convent had finally been able to trace her mother through the sisterhood in the south of Ireland. She was very ill and had been asking the nuns to pray for her that she might see the daughter she had abandoned when the child was only days old. Annie was reduced to tears as she explained to Carrie why she had to make the trip.

‘I’ve always wondered about her, Carrie,’ she sobbed. ‘What hardships must she have suffered to force her to do what she did? I want to see her before she dies, Carrie. I want to let her know that I always thought about her and always loved her, even though she was only a vision in my mind.’

Carrie hugged her and cried with her. ‘You’ll find yer won’t be disappointed, Annie,’ she told her. ‘She’ll be jus’ like yer expect ’er ter be. Be’ind that mask o’ pain an’ sufferin’ she’ll still look beautiful, yer’ll see.’

Annie hugged Rachel tightly and then took her leave, vowing to come back to Bermondsey as soon as she was able.

Carrie embraced her. ‘Always remember, Annie, yer future’s ’ere, ’ere in these little backstreets,’ she told her. ‘We love yer an’ want yer ter come back. I’m sure there’s a chance fer yer ter find real ’appiness ’ere in Bermondsey.’

Carrie watched her walk away along the windy riverside lane and thought about the conversation she had had with Billy Sullivan only a few days before.

It was in the back room where the young ex-boxer usually met Danny Tanner for a chat during the day. Billy had been expressing his fears about the policeman at the frightening identification parade in Rotherhithe police station and Danny had a few words of advice.

‘Yer best bet is ter stay clear of ’im. Keep yer nose clean an’ don’t give the copper any chance ter nail yer, Billy,’ he told him. ‘If yer do meet up wiv ’im don’t let ’im goad yer inter doin’ anyfing yer’ll regret. If yer put one on ’im ’e’ll get yer. They’ll give yer an ’idin’ when they get yer down the nick an’ then when yer come up in front o’ the beak yer’ll go down. They don’t take kindly ter people who set about coppers. Jus’ stay calm an’ don’t ferget what I said. Do yerself a favour an’ try ter get a job. It don’t matter what it is, even if yer ’ave ter sweep the streets fer a while. It’ll keep yer out o’ trouble at least.’

Carrie had heard the last snatch of conversation as she came into the room through the open doorway. ‘It’s about time yer found somefing else ter do instead o’ sittin’ around ’ere all day,’ she said laughing.

Danny leaned back in his chair. ‘Billy was tellin’ me about that new bobby on this beat. ’E’s got it in fer ’im,’ he said.

‘Why’s that, Billy?’ Carrie asked.

‘This copper used ter be on the Rovver’ithe beat an’ ’e reckons ’e’s seen me wiv that Tunnel Mob,’ Billy explained. ‘’E tried ter tie me in wiv that ware’ouse job they done. When the line-up didn’t go ’is way ’e got ter threatenin’ me. ’E reckons ’e’s gonna ’ave me one way or anuvver.’

‘Yer know what yer should do. Yer should get yerself a job first,’ Carrie told him.

‘That’s what yer bruvver jus’ told me,’ Billy groaned.

‘Well, ’e’s right,’ the young woman said firmly. ‘An’ yer know what else yer should do, yer should get yerself a young lady. Once yer walkin’ out steady the copper’ll prob’ly leave yer alone.’

Billy laughed. ‘Yer sound jus’ like my ole lady. She keeps on ter me about gettin’ meself a young lady friend. What about you?’ he joked with her, turning to wink at Danny.

‘I’m spoken for,’ Carrie laughed. ‘Seriously though, yer should fink about it. It’s time a nice-lookin’ feller like you was settlin’ down wiv a wife an’ family.’

‘Who’d ’ave me?’ Billy asked light-heartedly. ‘I ain’t got a job an’ I ain’t got much chance o’ gettin one wiv this,’ he said, pointing to his chest.

‘I know a young lady who would very much like ter walk out wiv yer,’ she said slyly.

‘Oh, an’ who’s that then?’ Billy asked, raising his eyes.

‘Annie McCafferty, that’s who,’ Carrie told him.

‘Annie? She ’ardly said a word when I met ’er in the park,’ Billy replied incredulously.

‘That’s ’cos she’s very shy,’ Carrie explained. ‘Annie’s a real nice young woman, an’ she’s very struck on you. I know ’cos she told me.’

Billy’s face had brightened. ‘Well, next time I see Annie I’ll ask ’er if she’d care ter step out wiv me,’ he said boldly.

Well, it will be some time before Billy gets his chance now, Carrie thought sadly as she watched Annie disappear out of sight around the sweep of the narrow turning.

As 1921 drew to a close the weather became bitterly cold. International trade slumped; after the first week in December few freighters steamed into the docks that served London, and on the Bermondsey quaysides berths were empty and the large cranes stood idle. On the streets groups of rivermen waited for a call-on each morning and the majority walked home disappointed. Some hung around the windy streets, hoping for some casual work which never came, and some drifted into the Bradley dining rooms to warm their bellies with mugs of hot sweet tea, knowing that it would be a bleak Christmas for them and their families. Carrie and Fred put up coloured paper chains in their steam-stained cafe and on numerous occasions gave mugs of tea to their regulars who could now no longer find the pennies to pay for them. In the back room Don Jacobs and his union men sought ways of easing the hardship for their members and a special hardship fund was set up from the dwindling money reserves in their branch coffers.

On a cold December night in Bacon Street, the turning around the corner from Page Street, Elsie Wishart sat in front of the dressing-table mirror in the bedroom of flat number 32 and carefully put her greying hair into a bun. When she was satisfied that her hair was all in place she took out her imitation pearl earrings and a matching necklace and put the earrings on. She did up the buttons of her white cotton blouse to the neck and slipped the pearl necklace over the high collar. Carefully she buttoned up the frilly cuffs of her blouse and tucked the waist down into her black satin skirt. She wore no make-up, apart from a trace of powder on her cheeks and a touch of blacking on her eyelashes, which gave her a transparent, doll-like look. She stood up and adjusted the waist of her ankle-length skirt and then walked over to the bed and sat down. For a moment or two she looked at the small, gilt-framed picture on the chair beside her bed, and then with a smile she bent down and retrieved her black patent button-up boots. Lastly, after donning her loosely fitting grey hat which had large, shiny black buttons down one side, she put on her grey coat with its fox-fur collar and surveyed herself in the mirror. Satisfied that all was well, Elsie Wishart picked up her black clutch bag and tucked it under her arm as she let herself out of the flat.

The gas jets flickered on the creaking stairs of Bacon Buildings and cast their frightening shadows on the crumbling plaster walls, but Elsie paid the shifting shapes no attention. Her mind was on other things as she walked purposefully down to the quiet street below. It was cold, with an east wind blowing and flurries of snowflakes dancing in the light of the iron gas lamp. The snow had settled, and an unspoiled carpet of white covered the cobbles and the stone doorsteps of the houses opposite.

Elsie Wishart ran her hand under the fur collar of her grey coat and held her bag tightly against her side as she turned left and walked towards Cotton Lane. The river was running high and the gas lamps on the north shore were plainly visible in the crisp, clear night air, their reflections shining on the cold water. Laden barges bumped and ground together, their thick mooring ropes creaking and straining, and a short distance upriver the looming Tower Bridge stood out plainly against the darkness. Elsie turned into Cotton Lane, walked the short few paces to the steps and stood looking down at the lapping, muddy water. A muffled, urgent voice called out and was answered by a louder, nearer voice. The sound of a rope slapping the water and another shout as the rope was taken up neither disturbed nor interrupted Elsie Wishart. With a deep sigh she walked into the river and let the cold, muddy waters close over her.

Carrie Bradley had settled her young daughter for the night and then sat down by the bright coke fire. Fred was sleeping in his favourite chair facing her and his steady, even snoring was the only sound in the quiet room. Outside the cobbled lane was deserted and Carrie thought about her young brother Danny and his workmates, who would soon be finishing as the tide turned. She stared into the fire. The last month’s takings were better than expected, even with the dock trade so poor, and there was reason to feel confident for the future. Other eating-houses in the area were feeling the pinch and some had ceased to operate, she had been told. The accountant had been pleased with her bookkeeping and the figures she had presented him with, and her guarded opinion that the dining rooms could expand further had been received with more enthusiasm than she could have expected. Carrie had already put her ideas to Fred but he had looked shocked.

‘But the place is a ruin,’ he had almost shouted at her. ‘It’ll take more money than we’ve got. No, it’s out o’ the question. I won’t even fink about it.’

Carrie sat back in her comfortable chair watching the tiny spurts of gas flickering briefly among the red hot coke, and she thought about visiting the bank. Fred would be mad at her and he would no doubt rant and rave for a time, but then his natural soft nature and easy way would overcome his anger, and he would at least listen, she told herself. She was sure her idea made sense. The derelict property next door was available and with much work it could be incorporated as an extension of the dining rooms. There would be more space for a bigger, more efficient kitchen, and with some good, sensible planning the seating could be almost doubled.