The Girl from Cotton Lane (21 page)

Frank Galloway leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. ‘Albert Whalley was saying that union leader, Don Jacobs, was priming them all up and he always has his meetings at the Bradleys’ cafe. What Gerry was suggesting seems to make good sense. Pull the rug from under him.’

George Galloway snorted. ‘Albert Whalley wasn’t tellin’ me anyfing I didn’t know. I’ve already ’ad a warnin’ from those new union scum. It’s eivver we allow ’em in wiv a full shop steward ter represent our carmen or I’ll never be allowed anywhere near the river again. I ain’t bein’ dictated to by the likes o’ them,’ he concluded, his voice rising to a crescendo.

Frank held out his hands in an effort to pacify his ageing father. ‘I know the score, Dad. You don’t have to remind me,’ he said quietly. ‘All right, we’ve got Macedo in to sort the union out, but it’s not enough to hit them alone. You’ve got to put the fear of God into the rank and file. And I’ll tell you something else too. If you go about this the wrong way the whole union movement is going to move closer together. It’ll be sewn up so tight that even Macedo won’t be able to put a foot out of place. Let Gerry sort out the Bradleys. We can tell him that if either of them gets hurt then the deal’s off. Gerry’s no fool, he knows what side his bread’s buttered. He’ll be able to go along with that, I’m sure.’

George Galloway slumped back in his chair and fingered his gold medallion. ‘It’s risky,’ he grumbled, a ponderous look in his eyes. ‘But I s’pose there’s nuffink else for it,’ he stared at his hands. ‘All right, let’s work out what we want Macedo ter do.’

Carrie had bathed Rachel and put her to bed, the books had been completed and the room tidied up, and the young woman stretched out her feet in front of the hearth. The paper chains were still hung across the room and they moved in the heat of the coke fire, while the cold wind outside rattled the window frames. Fred was sitting opposite Carrie rolling a cigarette with a thoughtful expression on his broad face, and he looked over at her as she sighed sadly.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I was jus’ finkin’,’ she replied in a quiet voice. ‘We spend weeks before Christmas plannin’, scrapin’ an’ schemin’, then there’s shoppin’ an’ buyin’ presents, an’ then suddenly it’s all over. All that fer a couple o’ days. Still I s’pose it’s werf it. Christmas seems ter bring people closer, don’t yer fink so, Fred?’

He smiled at her, a warm look in his dark eyes. ‘Yeah, I do. We’ve got somefink ter look forward to as well,’ he said, looking down at his cigarette and licking the gummed edge of the paper.

Suddenly a frown crossed Carrie’s face. ‘What was that, Fred?’ she asked.

Without saying anything he got up and made for the landing. Carrie could hear the scraping sound clearly now and then suddenly the chilling crack of splitting wood. As Fred reached the bottom of the stairs the door was smashed open and he shouted at Carrie to stay back. Two heavily built men lurched into the passageway and grabbed him by the arms. Fred was a powerful man but he was unable to do anything as they dragged him into the kitchen and bundled him into a chair.

Carrie had ignored Fred’s warning and as she rushed down the stairs after him a third man came into the passageway and clutched her, pinning both her arms to her sides. She screamed but a hand came over her mouth and she was carried roughly into the kitchen. She felt sick with fear lest something should happen to Rachel upstairs. Fred was being tied to the chair and he looked helplessly at her as she struggled gamely against the huge man holding her. She was soon trussed beside her husband, and they both had scarves tied around their mouths.

One of the men picked up a rolling pin from the pastry table and began to smash everything in sight. Another took down all the pots and pans and stamped on them with his heavy boots. The third man walked out into the serving area and Carrie winced as she heard the breaking of china. In no time at all the three intruders were reducing the cafe to a ruin. Seats were ripped from their mountings and the marble-topped bench tables were cracked with heavy blows. One of the men took out a large tin of red paint from a sack and proceeded to splash it over the freshly decorated walls. Carrie felt angry tears fill her eyes and she struggled vainly to get free. Fred seemed to be sitting slumped and his eyes were closed tightly, as if he was trying to wish away the act of wanton destruction taking place around him.

Although it seemed an eternity to Carrie it was over very quickly, and with a final gesture one of the men picked up the meat cleaver and brought it down hard on the chopping block, leaving it embedded there.

After the noise it seemed deathly quiet as Carrie struggled against her bonds. Soon she could feel a slackness and she worked on it until she was able to slip one hand free. Fred was still sitting still and not making any effort at all to free himself. Carrie looked at him and called his name but he did not respond. After a while she was able to untie her other hand and within minutes she had freed Fred and they were standing together amongst the shattered crockery and utensils. Carrie was crying tears of anger but Fred merely stared down at the mess, his face ashen.

‘Why, Carrie, why?’ he finally muttered.

‘I know why,’ she replied, her teeth gritted and her fists clenched at her sides. ‘We’ve bin singled out, Fred, can’t yer see? We’ve bin warned off.’

Fred looked at her with devastation in his large sad eyes. ‘The meetin’s. I knew nuffink good was gonna come out o’ lettin’ the union ’ave their meetin’s ’ere. I told yer, didn’t I?’ he groaned.

Carrie kicked out at a flattened pot in her temper. ‘It’s not the dock people,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s bin trouble from the very beginnin’ between the dockers an’ the bosses, but this is the first time anybody’s meted out this sort o’ punishment. No, Fred, there’s somebody else be’ind this, an’ I got a good idea who it could be.’

Fred shook his head. ‘Galloway wouldn’t go this far,’ he said incredulously. ‘E’s a businessman too, yer know. I can’t believe ’e’d get involved wiv this.’

Carrie gave him a hard look and bent down to pick up a shattered frying-pan. Suddenly she stiffened as a searing pain shot across the bottom of her stomach. Fred had seen her expression change suddenly and he was at her side.

‘’Elp me up the stairs, luv,’ she said in a hoarse voice. ‘I fink I’ve started bleedin’.’

Paper chains and balloons were still hanging in the Bargee as Don Jacobs walked in and strolled over to the counter.

‘’Ello, me ole troublemaker, what’ll it be?’ Tom Berry the landlord asked him.

Don grinned as he slapped a florin down on the counter. ‘I’d like a watertight agreement preferably,’ he said jovially, ‘but I’ll settle for a pint o’ bitter instead.’

Tom Berry smiled as he pulled on the beer pump. The two men had been friends for a number of years and it was here that Don Jacobs went to forget union matters for a brief spell. He was not allowed to forget for very long, however, as the landlord had once been a riverman and he liked to engage Don in a discussion about union matters. Tonight was no exception and as he placed the frothing pint of beer down on the counter he pushed the two-shilling piece back towards the union leader.

‘’Ave this one on me, pal. I ’eard yer done a good job at yer last meetin’,’ he grinned. ‘I was talkin’ ter some o’ the lads an’ they seem ter fink there’s progress bein’ made between yerselves an’ the transport workers. It’s about time, I’d say. On yer own yer got a struggle on yer ’ands but tergevver yer’ve got the bosses by the short an’ curlies.’

Don Jacobs smiled as he picked up his pint. ‘D’yer know, Tom, there’s times when I wanna chuck it all in, times when I fink I’m bangin’ me ’ead against a poxy brick wall, but that last meetin’ gave me a lot o’ satisfaction. The men could see the sense in what we were on about an’ the vote went our way fer a change.’

The landlord nodded. ‘It looks like we’re gonna see some changes on the waterfront, me ole cock,’ he joked, raising his hand to acknowledge one of his elderly customers. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, Don,’ he said.

Don Jacobs sipped his pint at the counter and looked casually around him. There were faces he knew well and one or two dockers waved to him. None of the men ever went over to stand with their union leader when he was drinking alone at the bar, however. It was a habit he had cultivated from the early days when groups of men continued their arguments in the pubs and tempers often became frayed when they were under the influence of drink. Don preferred his own company and his wish was respected. He could feel the cold air rush in as the door directly behind him opened and closed from time to time, but he chose that spot sooner than go to where the fire was burning brightly. He felt it was less likely that he would get involved in arguments and altercations there at the counter.

When Tom Berry returned Don could see there was something wrong. The landlord had a serious look on his normally jovial face and he narrowed his eyes.

‘Don, I don’t wanna put the wind up yer but there’s somefing goin’ on ’ere,’ he whispered.

The union leader saw the fear in Tom’s eyes and immediately felt his stomach tighten. ‘What is it, Tom?’ he asked quietly.

The landlord leaned down on the counter. ‘Jus’ before yer came in there was a stranger in ’ere an’ ’e asked if yer’d bin in. I didn’t take no notice of ’im at the time. There’s always somebody askin’ fer yer. Funny fing was, I don’t know why I didn’t twig it, but ’e didn’t look like the run o’ the mill bloke who’d be lookin’ fer yer. I’d say ’e come from over the water. I can tell by the accent.’

‘Why should that worry yer, Tom? It could ’ave bin one o’ the tally clerks,’ Don said casually.

Tom Berry shook his head. ‘Before ’e went out ’e got talkin’ to a bloke who was sittin’ by the door be’ind yer,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Well, jus’ now I saw the geezer who was askin’ after yer poke ’is ’ead in the door an’ look over at yer. Then the one sittin’ by the door ’opped it a bit quick. I don’t like it, Don. Yer might be gettin’ set up fer a pastin’. It wouldn’t be the first time a union steward got duffed up round ’ere, yer know.’

Don shrugged off the landlord’s concern. ‘There’s nuffink ter worry about, mate,’ he said easily. ‘I’m gonna ’ave one more pint then I’m off ter bed. ’Ave one wiv me,’ he suggested.

Tom was called away to serve, and he was in conversation with a few dockers at the far side of the counter when Don finished his pint and waved across to his old friend.

The union man pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears as he walked away from the pub along the cobbled lane, his footsteps echoing and his breath visible in the cold night air. He had gone only a short distance when suddenly two men stepped out from a wharf doorway and blocked his path. They were carrying what looked like lengths of rubber hose and Don Jacobs instinctively clenched his fists. There was another shadowy figure who remained lurking in the doorway as the two men slowly approached him. Don’s first thought was to turn and run but something told him to stand his ground. He heard footsteps behind him now and his heart sank. There was no escape.

‘C’mon then,’ he said in a voice he hardly recognised, his fists held up in front of him.

Suddenly the men closed in and one swung at him with the sand-filled hosepipe. Don ducked and felt the wind of the swipe above his head, straightened up and threw a punch at his assailant. It caught the man full in the face and he staggered back. Don winced as he suffered a heavy blow to his kidney and stumbled to his knees, gasping for breath. The men gathered around him now and the union leader closed his eyes as he waited for the beating.

Suddenly there was a loud roar and running footsteps on the cobblestones. The blows he had prepared himself for never landed. Instead all about him there was a tumble of writhing, twisting bodies, grunts and shouts as the dockers set about his assailants. One of the men fell beneath a flurry of blows and then heavy, steel-tipped boots kicked into his ribs. Another was pinned to the ground with one large docker punching him repeatedly in the face. Don climbed to his feet just in time to see the third assailant aiming a blow at the docker with his back to him. With a shout he jumped at the man and pulled him to the ground. Other men were arriving and soon the cobbled riverside lane was filled with shouting, struggling bodies.

It was soon over and three bloodied and bowed men were sitting on the kerbside with a large group of angry dockers standing over them.

‘What we gonna do wiv this lot, Don?’ one docker called out.

‘String the bastards up!’ another shouted, poking one of the sorry-looking assailants with the toe of his boot.

‘I know, let’s ’ang ’em from the crane,’ another suggested.

‘Chuck ’em in the river.’

‘Why don’t we tie ’em up an’ parade ’em along the quayside termorrer?’ yet another said.

A big docker with blood dripping from his nose pushed his way up to the front and bent down so that his face was inches from one of the bloodied assailants. He took out a pocket knife. ‘Now I wanna know who was be’ind this little caper,’ he said menacingly. ‘If yer don’t tell me, I’m gonna slit yer froat.’

The man’s eyes widened with terror. ‘We was paid a fiver each ter give yer union man a goin’ over by a geezer in the pub we was in. ’E was a stranger to us, honest ter Gawd, pal,’ he spluttered.

‘Don’t yer “pal” me,’ the big docker snarled, grabbing the terrified man around the windpipe.

Don Jacobs was still rubbing his sore back as he walked up to the three captured men and put his hand on the angry docker’s shoulder. ‘All right, Charlie, I’ll see ter this,’ he told him quietly. ‘Now listen you lot,’ he growled, ‘we’re gonna let yer go back ter whoever sent yer wiv a message. Jus’ say that next time anybody tries a stroke like this we’re gonna be ready for ’em, an’ when we sort ’em out we’re gonna dump ’em in the river tied ’and an’ foot. Is that clear an’ understood?’