The Girl from Cotton Lane (25 page)

The younger Galloway sat forward in his chair. ‘I don’t think Macedo would cheat us, Father,’ he said quickly. ‘If we could get regular cartage work for the big firms around here we’d be made, and it’d be no hardship paying Macedo his commission. We’d have no trouble with the dockers’ union either. Those ignorant sods might stand up to a handful of bruisers, but if the dock employers had reached an agreement with the rest of the businessmen in the area they’d be starved into submission. What price the union then? They can’t expect starving men to form picket lines. The transport and dockers’ unions in this area could be broken, Father, not bribed or intimidated but broken for good. We could make an example of them.’

The elder Galloway had been watching his son closely as the younger man said his piece and he felt sick to his stomach. ‘Yer talkin’ dangerous rubbish, Frank,’ he said bitterly.

Frank was staring at his father and he saw only obstinacy in the old man’s eyes. ‘You’re blind to the facts, Father,’ he said caustically.

‘Now you jus’ listen ter me fer a minute,’ George countered angrily, banging his fist down heavily on the desktop. ‘This borough feeds orf the Thames an’ it’s lifeblood ter the likes o’ you an’ me as well as everybody else around ’ere, don’t ferget. One way or anuvver it ’as ter supply the bread an’ butter an’ wivout the river we wouldn’t ’ave roofs over our ’eads. Ter talk about starvin’ out the dockers is madness. Yer not gonna stop the unions by force. In fact yer gonna make ’em stronger. I’ve found that out, much ter my regret. An’ as fer Gerry Macedo, ’e’s gonna learn that soon enough. They’re too big fer ’im ter meddle wiv.’

‘I’m talking about the power of money, not Gerry Macedo,’ Frank cut in. ‘If we all act together it’ll be more than the unions can cope with. It’ll decide the long-term future of this borough, I’m certain.’

George Galloway’s eyes narrowed as he faced his son. ‘Tell me, Frank, why are yer so anxious fer us ter fall in wiv Macedo’s plans?’ he asked suddenly. ‘’E’s not puttin’ any pressure on yer, is ’e?’

Frank looked away from his father’s searching stare. ‘Of course not,’ he replied quickly.

‘I still don’t reckon yer give me a straight answer when I asked yer what Macedo meant by that remark ’e made as ’e went out.’

Frank felt nervous under his father’s dark gaze and he started to fiddle with the sheaf of papers on his desk. ‘He was only hoping I’d get you to see sense, I suppose,’ he replied.

‘I don’t believe yer, Frank,’ his father said quietly, with authority. ‘’E’s got somefink on yer, I can tell. Now out wiv it!’

‘It’s nothing important,’ Frank answered, embarrassment showing on his face.

‘I wanna know, d’yer ’ear me?’ George said angrily, his voice rising.

Frank Galloway took a deep breath. It would have to come out sooner or later, he realised. Gerry Macedo would no doubt tell the old man when it suited him, now that it looked like his scheme had been rejected.

‘It was when I was having trouble with Bella,’ he began, looking up at his father. ‘It was nothing serious, just one of those things that tend to happen. She was always busy at the theatre and I was left much to myself. Anyway, I started to get out and about during the evenings. I went to nightclubs, and one or two gambling houses in the East End. I had a couple of good wins. Then I had a bad spell. I ran up a debt and I was being pressed for payment. Well, I borrowed money, hoping my luck would change, but I got deeper into it. They were tightening the screws and I was desperate. One night as I was strolling home I was bundled into a car and driven around for a while. Then suddenly the car pulled up and this well-dressed man got in. He wanted to know what I was going to do about paying up the debt.’

‘’Ow much was it, Frank?’ his father interrupted.

‘A hundred pounds.’

‘Yer bloody fool,’ George remarked with venom.

Frank shrugged and looked down at his shoes. ‘It was put to me that I might be able to cancel out the debt if I did as I was told.’

‘An’ what was that?’ George Galloway asked.

‘Well, this man told me that he knew of you and that you used to manage pub fighters. He said that I would be doing you a favour as well as myself if I went along with him in putting Joe Maitland out of business.’

George looked shocked. ‘Joe Maitland? Yer mean they got yer ter start that fire at Dock’ead?’

Frank looked up at his father. ‘I didn’t start that fire. Macedo did,’ he said simply.

‘But why should East End bookies wanna burn Maitland’s ware’ouse down?’ George asked in a perturbed tone of voice.

Frank took a deep breath and puffed out through his pursed lips. ‘Apparently it was Joe Maitland who was behind the police raid on the Crown,’ he explained. ‘They said it was him and his cronies from Poplar who got their friends put away and they were out for revenge.’

‘Why should Joe Maitland interest ’imself in gettin’ the tournaments stopped?’ George asked, still puzzled.

‘Apparently Maitland’s brother was a pub fighter and he refused to throw a fight,’ Frank replied. ‘There was a lot of money going on the other man and after Maitland’s brother won he was beaten up. He died a few days later. Joe Maitland went out to find the people responsible and he did a spell in prison for smashing up a pub. Anyway, the vendetta went on after he came out of prison and the last of those responsible for his brother’s death met his end the night of the police raid on the Crown at Dockhead.’

‘Yer mean Don McBain? But ’e fell down the stairs an’ broke ’is neck that night,’ George said incredulously.

‘That was the verdict, but they seem to think Maitland was behind it. They feel that he killed McBain,’ Frank explained.

George was hardly able to believe what he had heard. ‘So they used yer ter get at Joe Maitland,’ he said in a shocked voice. ‘Will Tanner was lucky ter get out o’ that fire.’

‘I didn’t know Macedo was going to harm anyone,’ Frank said in a low voice.

‘What I wanna know is, ’ow come yer got Gerry Macedo ter do yer biddin’?’ George quizzed him. ‘An’ where did yer get the money ter pay ’im when yer couldn’t find enough ter pay yer gamblin’ debts?’

‘I didn’t pay him,’ the younger Galloway said quietly. ‘He struck a deal with me. Macedo was eager to move south of the river and he saw the opportunity of renewing his ties with you through me. He seemed to think that you had all the right contacts in the transport set-up over this side and he knew you were fighting the unions. It all figured very nicely for him. He pressured me to coax you into calling him in last year. He’s been furthering his plans ever since.’

George Galloway sat slumped in his chair for a few moments, his face a black mask, then he looked up at the pathetic figure of his son. ‘D’yer know somefink,’ he said quietly, ‘I fink I lost the wrong son in the war. Geoffrey would never ’ave got inter the mess you got in. ’E was the one I nagged an’ pushed inter this business. ’E wanted ter be an engineer. But you-I let yer ’ave yer own way an’ become an accountant. What’s more, I encouraged yer ter marry that slut Bella. She’s got no time fer you or the business. All she cares about is those Fancy-Dans in the music-’all. If she’d ’ave spent more time at ’ome yer might never ’ave got yerself inter this mess. If Geoffrey was alive terday yer’d never ’ave come in the business. I’d ’ave seen ter that.’

Frank sat listening to his father’s bitterness in silence. He was right, he could not deny it. Geoffrey had been a good manager and a good brother as well, before his short life was snuffed out in the trenches. The old man was right about Bella too.

George Galloway’s hand was shaking as he refilled the glass at his elbow. ‘It seems ter me that yer’ve got us backed against the wall, Frank,’ he said in a quiet, controlled voice. ‘I should chuck yer out on yer arse fer what yer’ve done ter me, but I won’t. Yer gonna earn yer inheritance, an’ yer gonna start right now. I’m tellin’ yer straight, boy, I’m not gonna be dictated to by some jumped-up bastard from over the water who finks ’e can tell me ’ow I should conduct me business. I’m gonna fight the scheme an’ I’m startin’ ’ere an’ now, so yer better listen carefully ter what I’m gonna say.’

As the Christmas decorations went up and the market stalls lit up their Tilley lamps for late night trading Maudie Mycroft was feeling very despondent. Her efforts to get Ernest to denounce the Communist Party and pray to the Lord for forgiveness had come to naught, and as she carried her heavy shopping basket home from the market she was determined that none of her husband’s friends in the movement were going to set foot in her house. In fact she would make it quite clear to Ernest that unless he listened to her and saw the error of his ways their long-time marriage would be over.

The thought of living alone with only her church friends to support her was not a very nice prospect, but at least she could have peace of mind, Maudie told herself. Ernest had been raving about bringing down the Government and he had been standing on street corners with his dirty literature, as well as going on actual marches to Parliament. He was going to be the death of her if he kept up with this obsession of his, she groaned to herself. She would tell him firmly that he was making her ill with his ranting and raving, but after Christmas. Now wasn’t the time. It was the season of joy, peace and goodwill to all men.

‘’Ello, Maudie. ’Ow yer doin’, gel?’

The preoccupied woman was taken by surprise and she turned to face Florrie Axford who was standing arms folded at her front door. ‘’Ello, Flo. I didn’t see yer standin’ there,’ she said apologetically. ‘I was miles away.’

‘I thought yer was ill, not seein’ yer about,’ Florrie said, taking her snuffbox from her apron pocket.

‘I feel ill,’ Maudie replied, putting down her shopping basket and rubbing the palm of her hand. ‘It’s my Ernest. ’E’s bin gettin’ ’imself more an’ more tied up wiv those Communist people an’ I’m worried ’e’s gonna do somefink terrible one o’ these days,’ she groaned.

Florrie hid a grin as she tapped on her snuffbox. ‘I shouldn’t worry, luv,’ she told her. ‘It’ll all fizzle out. My second ole man was like that. ’E used ter get in wiv those anarchists from Whitechapel. They was the same sort o’ people. Mind yer, the Government’s clampin’ down on ’em, so I’ve bin told. They’re gettin’ a law out ter shoot ’em as traitors. I saw it in the paper only the ovver day. I know it’s drastic. but yer can’t ’ave those sort runnin’ around loose, can yer?’

Maudie looked frightened. ‘Shoot ’em, yer say? Why, that’s terrible.’

‘Well, yer can understand it, luv,’ Florrie went on with her teasing. ‘D’yer remember the siege o’ Sidney Street? It was a terrible turnout that was.’

Maudie nodded animatedly. ‘They shot ’em all there, didn’t they?’

Florrie considered herself somewhat of an authority on the Sidney Street siege and shook her head. ‘Nah. They never found Peter the Painter. Some say ’e was burnt in the fire afterwards but I reckon ’e got away. ’E’s out o’ the country now. Russia, I would say.’

‘Didn’t they shoot a policeman?’ Maudie asked with wide eyes.

‘Two,’ Florrie replied, placing a pinch of snuff on the back of her hand. ‘An’ the inspector who was in charge. They got the ’Ome Secretary there as well. Winston Churchill it was. ’E called the army in an’ they was firin’ at the ’ouse where the anarchists were ’idin’. The place caught light an’ they found the bodies o’ two o’ the men. Anuvver o’ the anarchists was shot by ’is own people. Worst fing ever bin known in Stepney. Mind yer, Maudie, I can see it ’appenin’ again if those Commie people get their way. I can see the soldiers out on the streets, really I can.’

By now Maudie was in a state of panic. ‘I can’t take no more of it, Flo,’ she wailed. ‘I’m gonna tell ’im straight after Christmas. It’s eivver me or them. ’E’s gotta make a choice.’

Florrie felt guilty for her teasing, and after she had sneezed loudly she patted Maudie on the back. ‘If yer can’t beat ’em yer should fink about joinin’ ’em, luv,’ she went on. ‘Tell Ernest yer wanna go ter their next meetin’. ’E might lose interest if yer tell ’im that.’

‘’Ow d’yer make that out, Flo?’ the worried woman asked.

‘Well, yer know men like ter keep those sort o’ fings away from us women. Once ’e knows yer wanna go ’e might jus’ pack it in.’

‘I can’t see ’im doin’ that,’ Maudie said, shaking her head. ‘’E’d jus’ say no. Ernest can be a very determined man when ’e likes.’

‘Well, be as firm as ’im, Maudie, an’ tell ’im yer goin’ ter the next meetin’ whatever ’e says. It’s better doin’ that than seein’ ’im shot by the soldiers.’

‘It won’t come ter that, will it?’ Maudie asked tearfully. ‘I couldn’t bear ter fink o’ my poor Ernest layin’ there in the gutter bleedin’ ter death. I’d jus’ die.’

‘Well, at least yer’d go tergevver, wouldn’t yer,’ Florrie said with a wicked glint in her eye.

Maudie picked up her shopping basket and dusted the front of her coat with the palm of her hand. ‘I must be orf ’ome, luv,’ she said, quickly composing herself. ‘I’ll take yer advice. The next time Ernest tells me there’s a meetin’ on I’ll insist ’e takes me wiv ’im.’

‘Mum’s the word though,’ Florrie called out to her. ‘Don’t let anybody know what yer up to. Yer know ’ow some people would put the finger on yer if they got the troops out.’

Maudie hurried home thinking over what Florrie had said, and as she put the key in the door she heard voices.

‘I’ll canvass this side o’ the turnin’ an’ you can do the ovver side. Now don’t ferget it’s one of each leaflet,’ her husband was saying.