The Girl from Cotton Lane (27 page)

All through the work the dining rooms remained open and the union men still held their meetings in the back room. Billy Sullivan looked in from time to time, adding his own suggestions and criticisms now that he considered himself to be a professional builder, but there was really another reason for his visits. He had heard from Danny that Annie McCafferty was back in Bermondsey and was eager to meet her once more.

‘She pops in now an’ again, Billy, but I can’t tell yer when,’ Carrie told him. ‘She’s very busy at the clinic. Why don’t yer let me talk ter the gel? I could introduce yer formally an’ the rest is up ter you.’

Billy shook his head. ‘A man’s got ’is pride. If I allow yer ter do that she’ll fink I ain’t got the nerve to ask ’er out,’ he told her.

‘But yer might be ages before yer bump inter the gel,’ Carrie pointed out.

Billy had decided that merely waiting until he met the young woman by chance was not an ideal prospect and felt that urgent action was necessary. It would mean going to see her, but he realised that a man would never go to the clinic unless he had a very good reason. He had thought of waiting outside the clinic but there again it was difficult. A man would soon be arrested for loitering and there would be some explaining to do. He would talk it over with Danny on Friday night, he decided. There were other things he had to talk about too, now that he was in regular work.

Annie McCafferty had settled down in her new job at the children’s clinic and she was grateful for the fact that she was kept very busy. There was little time to think about those last few months of her mother’s life when the poor woman suffered so, and that sad time after the funeral when there were lots of papers to go through and many letters to write. Now she could build a future for herself in Bermondsey. What would it hold for her? Annie wondered. Maybe she would meet Billy Sullivan on her travels and he might consider asking her to walk out with him. He was certainly a handsome young man with a very friendly nature. Carrie had said that Billy had a regular job now, and that he had asked after her often. Annie felt her heart beat faster as she thought about the young man. Her life had been very sheltered and devoid of male company. It would be very nice to have a young man of her own, she thought. Maybe Billy would take her to the rose gardens in Southwark Park, and maybe, just maybe, he would steal a kiss and tell her how pretty she was.

But he wouldn’t, Annie sighed, staring at herself in the dressing-table mirror. She was too thin, too plain, for the likes of Billy Sullivan. He wouldn’t be interested in her, she told herself. He had only asked after her out of good manners. Maybe if she cut her hair or changed it so that she didn’t look so severe he just might ask her to walk out with him . . . The way she looked now would probably frighten off any young eligible bachelor, she had to admit.

On Friday evening Billy sat with his long-time friend Danny in the public bar of the Kings Arms, and once again he broached the subject he had held close to his heart for a long time.

‘I reckon I’ll never get enough money tergevver to even rent a place, Danny, but I’ve ’ad a word wiv Farvver Murphy an’ ’e reckons I should write ter the church people. ’E said if I put me ideas down on paper ’e’ll send a letter as well an’ it jus’ might work. What ’ave I got ter lose?’

Danny sipped his pint thoughtfully. ‘Carrie was tellin’ me that bit o’ land next ter the cafe is up fer sale. It was a pity yer never managed ter rent it. That was a good spot fer a gym.’

Billy nodded. ‘I tried ter raise the money but nobody would cough up. It was a pity. I ’ad a few lads lined up who were gonna ’elp do the work, as yer know.’

Danny sat watching the comings and goings in the pub as he listened to his old friend expounding his dream and the germ of an idea started to form in his head. He would talk with his father, he decided. He might be able to give him the information he needed.

‘’Ow’s the young lady?’ Billy asked as he put down his glass and wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand.

‘Iris is fine. We’re lookin’ ter get married next year,’ Danny told him.

‘I was finkin’ o’ settlin’ down meself soon,’ Billy remarked, toying self-consciously with his beer glass.

Danny smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve ’eard that often enough, Billy,’ he replied. ‘I reckon you’ll be sayin’ that when yer walkin’ frew the park wiv yer walkin’ stick.’

‘Don’t yer be so sure,’ Billy countered quickly. ‘I’m finkin’ of askin’ Annie McCafferty ter walk out wiv me.’

‘Yer could ’ave bin doin’ that now if yer’d listened ter Carrie. She could ’ave made the right introductions,’ Danny remarked.

‘I’m serious, Danny. I’m finkin’ o’ goin’ over ter the clinic where Annie works an’ askin’ ’er.’

‘That’s gonna be a bit difficult, ain’t it?’ Danny queried. ‘Yer’ll ’ave ter tell ’em yer left the baby be’ind an’ yer want some advice.’

Billy took another sip from his pint of porter and then suddenly brought his fist down on the table. ‘Yer’ve give me an idea,’ he said with a sly glint in his eye.

Danny had listened to Billy’s schemes often enough and he felt that more than a few of them had verged on the crazy. ‘What yer got in that mind of yours?’ he asked grinning.

Billy shook his head, the ghost of a smile showing in the corner of his mouth. ‘Just an idea. I gotta fink about it though,’ he replied.

The public bar had become packed on that Friday evening and the regular customers chatted together in small groups or sat at the iron tables, one or two drinking alone. Florrie Axford was in the company of Maisie Dougall and Maggie Jones, while Harold Temple sat on his own staring into his full glass of beer, his unlit pipe held in his hand. In one corner a couple sat at a table and chatted together, the man nodding his head often as the woman seemed to be labouring a point.

‘Well, it’s a good fing yer was talkin’ ter yerself that day, Bill, or yer’d be laid out on a slab by now,’ Alice Johnson told him. ‘I was ready ter swing fer yer. In fact I ’ad that carver all ready ter finish yer. Just remember what I said. If I ever catch yer playin’ around, yer’ll be done for.’

Broomhead nodded. He had spent his whole life avoiding the very situation he now found himself in and he was not feeling too pleased. It had been very difficult calming her down that day in the shed, he recalled with a shudder. At first she had waved the knife around and made threatening gestures with it, and only after much abject pleading had she finally laid down her weapon. Broomhead had realised that he was very lucky not to end up mutilated, and in his gratitude he had asked Alice to take the next Friday evening off from her barmaid duties and go to the Kings Arms with him. It had become a regular arrangement for the last couple of months and still he had not managed to worm his way back into her bed. Alice had been very firm about that and she was constantly reminding him that there were certain things he would have to agree to if he was going to become her lover again.

He had complied, and now he called in on her for a cup of tea every evening before returning home, which was difficult for him at times. He had to get his hair cut regularly and keep his boots clean, and he had been required to buy himself a new trilby to replace his old faithful one. He had had to promise Alice too that he would make sure his horse was well fed and always properly groomed. Broomhead had kept his word, and he took exception to her accusing him of starving the nag. He always made sure it got its oats - which was more than could be said for him - but it was a waste of time using the curry-comb and brush on that bag of bones, he grumbled to himself.

All week Broomhead had been agonising over what he should do regarding Alice. Every Friday night he had to listen while she reminded him about how near he had come to a bad end that day in the shed, and he had come to the conclusion that unfortunately the woman he had lost his freedom to was completely mad and had no intention of ever letting him into her bedroom again. Enough was enough, he told himself, and as he sat nodding dutifully to her in the public bar of the Kings Arms his mind was racing. He would get rid of her once and for all, he vowed. He had had to bend to her will after she held the carver over his head but his time would come, surely it must. There could be an accident. He could run her over if he ever saw her in the street, but then his horse would not go fast enough to run anyone over. No, he would have to think of something else. He could rake out his old trilby, forget to clean his boots and let his hair grow long again, but that would only appear as though he wasn’t interested in her anymore, which would mean having to watch his back all the time in case she came at him with the cleaver.

‘I’ll ’ave the same again,’ Alice said, interrupting his thoughts as she pushed her empty glass towards him.

Broomhead dutifully walked over to the counter, and as he stood waiting to be served he became aware that he was being stared at.

‘I thought I reco’nised yer. Don’t yer remember me?’

Broomhead looked down at the diminutive character wearing a red scarf and a check cap and shook his head. ‘Nah, I don’t,’ he replied.

The man gave him a toothless grin and rolled his shoulders. ‘I’m Bert Gibson. Yer mus’ remember me,’ he persisted.

‘Sorry, I don’t,’ the totter said irritably.

‘Yer remember. Yer took our ole pianer away. I ’elped yer out wiv it. Bloody glad ter get rid of it, ter tell yer the trufe. Never bin played since our Rene got married. She never comes round now. I don’t fink that whoreson of an ’usband likes ’er comin’ round ter see us. I dunno what we done ter make ’im keep ’er away, I’m sure I don’t.’

Broomhead tried desperately to catch the barman’s eye, fearing that he had become fair game for all the mentally unbalanced people in the area.

‘Rene’s a lovely gel, but she won’t stand up fer ’erself,’ the little character went on. ‘She should tell ’im straight she’s entitled ter see ’er family once in a while. After all, it ain’t askin’ too much, is it?’

‘What ain’t?’ Broomhead asked, wishing the barman would look his way.

The little man rolled his shoulders and poked out his chin as though he was being slowly strangled by the tightly knotted scarf around his scrawny neck. ‘Why, ’er tellin’ ’im straight,’ he said. ‘Yer gotta stand up fer yerself or yer’ll be put on. That’s my motto. Do as yer done by. Stick up fer yerself. Don’t let ’em treat yer like a doormat. I wouldn’t stan’ fer it. That’s bloody right.’

Broomhead finally caught the barman’s eye and as he gave his order a big woman walked up to the counter and prodded the little man.

‘Oi, you, are yer gonna stan’ talkin’ all night? I’m still waitin’ fer me drink. You was ’ere before ’im,’ she said in a loud voice, pointing towards Broomhead.

‘Sorry, dear. This is the man who took our pianer,’ he answered meekly.

‘What d’yer want me ter do, ask fer it back?’ the woman said sharply, looking the totter up and down.

‘Yer should ’ave kept yer pianer an’ got rid of ’er,’ Broomhead whispered to the little character as he picked up the glasses and walked away from the counter.

In another corner of the public bar Maudie Mycroft sat with her husband Ernest, feeling happier than she had done for some time. He had promised her he would seriously consider leaving the British Communist Party if she would cut down her church commitments. It was a fair bargain, she thought. She had been very busy at the church functions of late, and now that there was another new vicar coming soon she felt it was time to reconsider her position. The Monday meetings were very nice. There was always something going on, and the tea and biscuits afterwards gave her the chance to chat with everyone there. Tuesdays could be cut out though. The sewing circle seemed obsessed with making patchwork quilts and she had four of them already. But then if she cut out Tuesdays she would not get the opportunity to meet Mrs Duckworth and that nice Miss Henshaw from Carter Street. Wednesday could be considered. There was only the church fund committee. The only problem there was that they might think she did not care what happened to the establishment if she didn’t go along. What about Thursday? Maudie asked herself. No, she couldn’t give up choir practice. Besides, the vicar always came along on Thursday evenings and conducted prayers. Friday was her day off and Sunday was for worship so that left only Saturday. But how could she face the rest of the women if she did not help them with the jumble sales and the other fund-raising events they organised?

Maudie suddenly felt less happy but Ernest was secretly smiling to himself as he sat beside her drinking his pint of ale. There was as much chance of Maudie giving up her church commitments as there was of him getting his old friend Hymie Goldberg to eat a bacon sandwich. No, it was a good bargain, he thought.