The Girl from Cotton Lane (19 page)

Billy was feeling optimistic as he shuffled along with his hands deep in his coat pockets. It was a big advertisement and lots of men would have seen it, he realised, but he remembered what his mother had told him when he pointed it out to her. ‘Most people won’t go after that sort o’ job. It’s the smell what puts ’em off,’ she told him.

Billy could not understand why the smell of soap should put people off and he whistled to himself as he hurried along Bermondsey Street, his mind racing. First he would get himself a new pair of trousers, he decided. Later he could buy a new suit from the tally man when he was getting a regular wage. He might even be able to afford a nice pair of boots to walk out in on Sundays and holidays, and then the local girls would have to watch out. The word would get round that Billy Sullivan was on the loose and looking spruce and they would be falling over themselves to walk out with him.

The smell became noticeable as Billy turned into a narrow alley off Bermondsey Street, and by the time he reached the end of the alley he was almost retching. The smell was like nothing he had ever encountered and his spirits sagged.

‘Yes, we have vacancies,’ the friendly looking manager told him. ‘Now let me see, you haven’t been in trouble with the police, have you?’ he asked, one eyebrow going up.

Billy shook his head vigorously. ‘I go ter church every Sunday,’ he said, hoping that would suffice as an answer.

‘Very commendable,’ the man said. ‘Now, just a few questions. Where was your last job?’

‘The army,’ Billy replied.

‘You served in the war?’

‘Yes.’

‘The war’s been over a few years now. What work did you do when you were demobilised?’ the man asked.

‘I couldn’t work, yer see,’ Billy told him.

‘Oh, and why was that?’

‘It was me muvver. She was poorly an’ I ’ad ter stay ’ome an’ look after ’er,’ Billy lied, his fingers crossed behind his back.

‘I see. Is your mother better now?’ the manager asked him.

‘They took ’er away,’ Billy said, hoping he was not about to be struck down for his wickedness.

‘Oh dear. Where did they take her?’

‘Colney ’Atch. She was right off ’er ’ead,’ Billy went on. ‘Mind yer, she’s a lot better now. We’re gonna ’ave ’er ’ome soon as me an’ me sisters can raise the money ter get a better ’ouse in the country.’

‘How many sisters have you got, Mr Sullivan?’ the inquisitive manager asked.

‘Twelve.’

‘Twelve? Well, couldn’t one of those sisters have looked after your mother so you could go out to work?’

Billy shook his head, feeling his lips beginning to twitch. ‘My muvver wouldn’t let any of ’em near ’er. She said I was the only one she wanted round. Mind yer, she was a bit nutty at the time.’

The manager felt a wave of pity for the young man fate had dealt so harshly with. ‘Well, you can start tomorrow,’ he said smiling. ‘We’ll supply the aprons and clogs. The hours are from seven till five, with a half-hour break for dinner. I’m sure you’ll settle in here nicely. Don’t be too concerned about the smell, you’ll soon get used to it.’

Billy left the Faraday Soapmakers with mixed emotions. He was already feeling sick from the putrid smell which was coming from the floor below the office, and he was angry at the man’s prying into his personal business. He was also puzzled by what sort of soap they were making there.

Sadie Sullivan was not sure whether to kiss him or kick him when he told her he had got the job. In some respects Billy was very sensible, she reflected, but in others he was so stupid.

‘They supply the aprons an’ clogs,’ he told her as he tucked into a thick slice of bread and jam. ‘I s’pose it’s a wet job.’

‘Greasy more like it,’ Sadie replied.

Billy looked puzzled. ‘I dunno what was goin’ on in that factory but there was this putrid smell. I felt really sick.’

Sadie felt she had to tell Billy what he would be facing, even though he might change his mind about the job. ‘Yer’ll ’ave ter boil bones, animal bones,’ she explained with a sigh. ‘That’s what they make soap from. Surely yer knew that?’

Billy’s face dropped. ‘I might ’ave known,’ he said bitterly. ‘I don’t s’pose many people go after those sort o’ jobs. Still, never mind. I’ll stick it out till I can find somefing better.’

Sadie felt a surge of affection for her son welling up inside her. ‘I tell yer what,’ she said. ‘Yer farvver’s left me a shillin’ fer the tally man so I s’pose ’e’ll be in a good mood. I’ll ask ’im if ’e’ll let me ’ave a nice pair o’ trousers for yer. Now eat yer tea.’

Billy could not stop imagining rotting bones being crushed down in a huge pot and he pushed the plate away from him. ‘I’m not very ’ungry, Muvver,’ he said.

1922 seemed to pass very quickly for William Tanner. He had settled down at Joe Maitland’s new warehouse in Druid Street, and he was feeling less vulnerable now that Sidney Coil was working alongside him. Sidney, or ‘The Cruncher’ as he was known by the wrestling fraternity, was a young man who had a superbly developed body and a sadly under-developed brain, and he had to be supervised in everything from the time he sauntered in until the time he left. The young wrestler was a very friendly character, however, and a tireless, willing worker. William became attached to the young man and was pleased to have him at his elbow whenever callers came. The attack on him had left William feeling nervous for a while but he had recovered well, and it was now only a bad memory. He felt that whoever had caused his injuries and wrought destruction on the warehouse in Dockhead was now satisfied and that would be the end of it.

The Cruncher was not so convinced though. He had been told by Joe Maitland that somebody was out to cause them trouble and grief and his job was to watch out for the slightest sign. The young wrestler was keen to show his merit, and his intimidating looks and demeanour tended to frighten the carmen and other callers at the warehouse. Sidney’s devotion to duty terrified the ratcatcher who Joe Maitland had called in after William told him that rodents had been nibbling at some of the cartons.

Sidney answered the knock on the warehouse door. ‘What d’yer want?’ he growled.

‘I’ve come ter set a trap,’ the ratcatcher said amiably.

Suddenly he found himself pulled through the door and lifted bodily by his coat lapels until he was eye to eye with the powerful young wrestler. His eyes were popping and his breath was restricted by Sidney’s grip on him.

‘Put me down, yer bloody imbecile,’ he gulped.

‘Who sent yer?’ Sidney snarled.

‘I’ve come ter fix the rats,’ the terrified man gasped.

‘I’ll fix you, yer whoreson,’ The Cruncher said in his most menacing voice.

William’s prompt intervention saved the ratcatcher from further pain and suffering. ‘It’s all right, Sid, Joe sent fer ’im,’ he shouted in the wrestler’s ear.

It was only after the terrified ratcatcher was given a large glass of Scotch whisky from Joe Maitland’s private stock and a firm promise that Sidney would be kept out of his way, that the man could be coaxed into laying his traps. Even then he mumbled to himself throughout the whole operation, vowing that it was the last time he would lay traps in that establishment while the wild one worked there.

1923 dawned on a tragic note. Early one Monday morning in January Aggie Temple got up and went about her chores, whitening her doorstep as usual and then dusting through the house. She went to market for bread and potatoes and then stopped at the cat’s-meat stall. When she got home she fed the cat, moaned at Harold for getting under her feet and then made herself a cup of tea when he went up to the paper shop. Harold stopped to chat with the newsagent for a while and when he returned he found Aggie dead in her chair, the full cup of tea beside her.

As always the women of Page Street rallied around, and Florrie volunteered to wash and lay out her old friend, while Maisie and Sadie went door-knocking with a collection box.

Early on the morning of the funeral flowers started to arrive. Just before the hearse drove in to the street Broomhead Smith arrived on his cart and laid a wreath at Aggie’s front door before driving slowly out of the turning. Aggie was given a nice funeral and everyone in the little turning stood at their front doors to pay their last respects. Harold was a sad figure as he bore up bravely, but he was reduced to tears when he saw Florrie’s tribute to her old friend-a wreath in the shape of a broom.

Carrie Tanner had decided that this year she was going to try her hardest to coax Fred into buying the derelict property next door. They had managed to put some money by and she felt that now was the time to expand. Fred still would not be swayed and the atmosphere between them became tense. The uncomfortable situation was not helped by Rachel’s nurse putting in her notice. Things had not been altogether easy-going between Carrie and the elderly nurse, who did not seem to have the same rapport with the child as Annie McCafferty. Carrie was not sorry to lose the woman but it meant that she would have to combine her work in the dining rooms with caring for Rachel, now a lively three year old.

Fred decided that Bessie could help out more behind the counter and Carrie should spend more time with the child instead of employing another nurse. ‘It’ll only be for a year or so. Rachel’s gonna be startin’ school then,’ he told her.

Carrie could understand the thinking behind Fred’s decision and she was angry. ‘I s’pose yer fink I’ll ferget about the plans fer the cafe now,’ she grated. ‘Well, I won’t. Yer just frightened ter take a chance, Fred. If we got that place next door an’ spent a few bob renovatin’ it we could double our takin’s, why can’t yer see it?’

‘It’ll take all the money we’ve saved,’ he barked at her. ‘I’m not prepared ter lose it all on a wild idea, so ferget it.’

Carrie could see that there was no way she would get him to change his mind for the present and she reluctantly decided to hold her fire.

The winter months were hard for the Bradleys. Trade along the wharves had diminished and their takings fell. Fred was quick to point out the folly of expanding at such a time but Carrie stuck to her argument.

‘It’s the same everywhere. We’re not the only business that’s feelin’ the pinch, an’ at least we’re ’oldin’ our own,’ she told him. ‘If we put in a bid I reckon we could get that place fer next to nuffink, the way fings are. We don’t ’ave ter rush in an’ do it up all at once. We could do it bit by bit.’

Fred merely shook his head and got on with his cooking to the chagrin of his ambitious young wife, who was determined to succeed with her plans for expansion before the year was out.

During the summer months trouble was brewing along the waterfront as the dock owners tried to cut their overheads by reducing the workforce, and longstanding agreements between them and the union on manning levels were scrapped. Constant bickering between the two sides and frequent stoppages aggravated the situation, and when winter set in and the seasonal trade brought more work the arguments over workforce numbers increased. Don Jacobs held many meetings in the little back room of the Bradleys’ cafe during the periods of strife, seeking co-operation from the local cartage firms through their union representatives. Many local firms enjoyed good rapport with the dockers’ union but there were some which seemed constantly to hamper the negotiations, and one of these was Galloway Transport Contractors.

In early December 1923 Don Jacobs held an important meeting with all the union shop stewards from his own branch and those of the local transport branch. Carrie and Fred stayed open late that night and the dining rooms were packed with angry union men, who listened intently while Don Jacobs was on his feet.

‘Cutting the mannin’ levels is like askin’ starvin’ men ter eat less bread,’ he began with passion. ‘It’s criminal, an’ it’s downright dangerous as well. We all know very well there’s a turn-round time fer those ships, an’ unless we can stick ter those times we’re not gonna earn a wage. Now I wanna impress on all our bruvvers from the transport branch that when six men ’ave gotta do the work of eight then safety procedures go up the bloody chimney. Yer’ve only gotta look at the accidents over the past year ter see that. We’ve ’ad two fatalities an’ more than a dozen bad injuries along our stretch o’ the water, an’ I tell yer, bruvvers, it’s not acceptable!’

A roar of approval greeted Don Jacobs’ angry words and he held up his hands for silence. ‘Now on Monday we’re tellin’ the employers we’ve ’ad enough, an’ we all know what their next move’s gonna be. They’re gonna put the screws on us. They’ll provoke a stoppage, an’ yer all know what that means.’