The Girl from Cotton Lane (3 page)

Chapter Two

Carrie stood behind the counter of the dining rooms with her fair hair pulled up at the back of her head and held in place with a pair of large bone combs. She brushed aside a wisp of hair which had slipped down over her face and smiled placatingly at the florid-faced docker leaning forward over the tea-stained counter. ‘Two o’ toasted drippin’? Yeah, I’ve put yer order in, Joe. Give us a chance. Fred’s run orf ’is feet back there,’ she appealed to him.

‘Well, tell ’im ter get a move on, luv. I ain’t got all day, yer know,’ the docker protested. ‘We’re goin’ barmey at the wharf. Yer know what it’s like when we’re on bonus.’

Carrie smiled and patted his huge gnarled hand. ‘Sit down, Joe, I’ll bring it to yer in a minute,’ she replied.

‘Oi, Carrie, where’s my ovver mug o’ tea?’ another docker called out impatiently.

‘Jus’ comin’.’

‘What’s that ole man o’ yours doin’ back there? Kippin’ is ’e?’

‘Gis anuvver drippin’ slice, will yer, luv.’

‘Fancy a night at the flicks, Carrie, luv?’ another voice called out.

And so it went on. The glass-fronted doors of the dining rooms were constantly opening and shutting and letting in draughts of cold morning air with the busy comings and goings of workers and their loud, raucous banter. The large plate-glass window of the riverside cafe was steamed up and trickles of condensation ran down the yellow-painted walls. The linoleum flooring was muddied and the wooden bench-tables were stained with slops of food and drops of spilt tea and coffee. A steady stream of steam-laden air gushed out from the kitchen and Carrie frequently ran the back of her hand across her hot forehead as she struggled to cope with the customers’ demands. It was always the same when trade was booming at the local wharves, and as the convoys of horsecarts and lorries lined up along Cotton Lane so the cafe became even fuller.

Carrie had managed to cope with the twofold demands of the business and motherhood by employing a young woman to look after Rachel during the busy days. Annie McCafferty was a very reliable person who had been recommended to Carrie by the local midwife. She was a shy, retiring girl who had been brought up in a convent school after being abandoned as a baby. A tramp had found her freezing and near to death on the doorstep of a gin palace near the Elephant and Castle and he had carried her to the local Catholic church. There was a crudely written note attached to the child giving her name and saying that the mother was an unmarried Irish girl who had been in service and was going back to Ireland. Annie was nursed back to full health by the kind nuns who adopted her and they were able to give her a good education. When the time came for Annie to leave the convent school she was recommended for training in child welfare. Now twenty-eight, one year younger than Carrie Bradley, the young Irish lady was still single and had no urgent desire to wed, although her pale beauty could turn many a young man’s head. She was demure and dark-haired with deep blue eyes, and her full lips were constantly set firmly, giving the impression of sternness, although she was far from stern when dealing with her charges. She had been denied the company of males during her early life and now found it difficult to talk to members of the opposite sex. She feared the roughness and the roguishness of men and was happy in her work.

Annie led a quiet, uneventful life, living in rooms near the Southwark Park. The building, which was owned by the church, was made up of a dozen self-contained flats rented out to respectable young women who had gone through the children’s home and school of St Mary’s Convent in Bermondsey. Annie spent her weekends reading, going to church and having tea with other young women in like circumstances. She rarely went out alone, preferring to take her strolls in the company of one or two of her friends. The other women often talked about young men they knew, and one of them had been taking a young man back to her flat during the evenings. Such a practice was frowned on by the church, and instructions were given to the warden of the building that if any young woman allowed a man to stay overnight then she was to be reported to the Mother Superior. All the young women knew the consequences. Should they digress they would be asked to find other accommodation forthwith. Annie felt worried for the young woman who was flaunting the rules and regulations and taking such a risk. She had seen the young man leaving Mary Kelly’s rooms and slipping out of the building by the back way on more than one occasion. Other girls had seen him leaving too and Annie felt that it was only a matter of time before her friend was found out.

The young Irish nurse was happy too to be employed by the Bradleys, for the baby’s mother was kind and considerate and her husband posed no threat. Fred Bradley stayed very much in the background and his soft, kind eyes helped to put her at ease.

Annie came in at seven-thirty every weekday morning, bathed and fed the child and, weather permitting, took her for an outing in the large black perambulator. She left every day at two o’clock, after the morning rush was over and once the last of the hot midday meals had been served. It was then that Carrie took over, dividing her time between caring for her baby and attending to her customers. She had complete confidence in the young nurse, although she found it very difficult to penetrate her reserve. Carrie’s only problem was the other woman who worked in the dining rooms. Bessie Chandler helped Fred in the kitchen, and when business demanded or when Carrie went upstairs to tend Rachel she came out of the kitchen to help behind the counter. Bessie was a fiery character, a large plump woman with a shock of ginger hair, freckles and green eyes. She was talkative and forthright in her opinions, which she gave freely and often without the qualification for doing so. Bessie’s opinions on how babies should be cared for were given freely to Carrie and duly ignored by the young mother, who was aware that Bessie had never had children of her own. Annie McCafferty, however, with her training in caring for children, viewed the Bradleys’ large and vociferous helper as an ignorant, interfering busybody.

It was Friday morning, cold and clear after the night rain, and Annie brought Rachel down the stairs and settled her in the pram which was kept in the passageway beside the kitchen. Bessie was busy rolling out pastry for the meat pies and she looked up at the young nurse. ‘Yer not intendin’ ter take the baby out in this weavver, are yer?’ she asked in an indignant tone of voice. ‘It’s bleedin’ freezin’ out there.’

Annie’s lips puckered in irritation. ‘It’s cold, but as long as the baby’s well wrapped up it’ll do no harm. In fact, the air will do her good,’ she said stiffly.

‘Do ’er good?’ Bessie snorted. ‘Give ’er pneumonia more like it.’

Annie disregarded the remark and as she walked out of the side door pushing the baby carriage Bessie turned to her employer.

‘I shouldn’t let that young woman take too much on ’erself, Fred, if I was you,’ she said quickly. ‘Them sort ain’t got ’alf the sense they was born wiv.’

Fred was busy cutting meat into small cubes and he ignored his helper’s comment.

‘I remember what ’appened ter Mrs Orchard’s first-born,’ Bessie began. ‘Baby girl it was. She went cross-eyed. My next-door neighbour Elsie Dobson told me Clara Orchard took the baby out in the fog and the child got a terrible cough. Whoopin’ cough it turned out ter be. Nasty that complaint can be, let me tell yer. Anyway it turned the baby’s eyes. The child never got better. Yer can still see the poor cow walkin’ about wiv both ’er eyes pointin’ inwards. She’s got two kids of ’er own now an’ they’re both cross-eyed. No, I tell yer, Fred, yer gotta be so careful where kids are concerned.’

Fred nodded, rolling his eyes in irritation. ‘Yes, Bessie,’ he growled.

‘I was only sayin’ ter my ole man last night, this ’ere fog’s a killer,’ the large woman went on. ‘That Mr what’s-’isname who used ter come round ’ere wiv the cockles on Sundays put ’is bad chest down ter the fog. Mind you though, I fink it was the pipe what did it. Never out of ’is mouth that pipe.’

‘’Ave you ever thought of smokin’ a pipe?’ Fred asked suddenly, wincing at his own audacity.

Bessie chuckled and waved her hand at him in a dismissing gesture. ‘Gawd luv us, no. Mind yer though, there’s a lot what do,’ she went on, missing the sarcasm in Fred’s remark. ‘Mrs Dingle always ’ad a clay pipe stuck in ’er gob. She used ter sit in the Kings Arms on the corner o’ Page Street shellin’ ’er peas in the summer an’ puffin’ away at that clay pipe of ’ers. She used ter wear a cap stuck on the back of ’er’ead an’ a docker’s scarf. Gawd knows what become of ’er. I ain’t seen ’er about fer ages. P’raps she’s snuffed it.’

Fred cut into the pieces of meat with a vengeance, fighting the urge to shake the chattering Bessie Chandler by the scruff of her neck until she snuffed it. ‘P’raps she ’as,’ he replied quietly.

Bessie was not finished. ‘Like I was sayin’ earlier,’ she prattled on, ‘yer gotta be so careful wiv kids.’

Fred had had enough. He put down the carving knife on the chopping block and wiped his hands on the end of his apron. ‘Leave the rollin’ out, Bessie. I’ll do that. Give Carrie an ’and, will yer?’ he almost implored her.

Bessie nodded, glad for the chance of making her views known to the young mother, and she quickly flounced off out of the kitchen. Fred sighed to himself as he looked at the rest of the meat lying on the chopping block and at the pile of dough still to be rolled out. She’ll have to go, he told himself, fearful for his sanity while at the mercy of Bessie’s constant chatter. He picked up the sharp knife once more with a frown and growled at the meat as he diced it, imagining that it was Bessie he was carving up.

On Friday evenings Carrie was in the habit of visiting her parents in Bacon Buildings. First she bathed Rachel and gave her a feed before settling her down, then she washed and changed, combing out her long fair hair and setting it on top of her head again. Fred watched his young wife go through her weekly ritual thinking how beautiful she looked. Her body had soon regained its youthful shape and he marvelled how trim she looked. Her breasts had become larger since Rachel was born and the tops of her arms too, he thought. Carrie’s bright blue eyes mirrored her good health and she hummed happily to herself as she brushed down her best coat. She was glad to get away from the shop for a short while and she felt confident about leaving the baby in Fred’s charge. Normally Rachel slept for a few hours after the feed and Carrie had made sure her husband knew what to do should the baby wake up before she got home. Once ready she turned to Fred and he raised his hands quickly in front of him. ‘It’s all right, I know what ter do if she wakes up,’ he reminded her. ‘Pick ’er up an’ bring up ’er wind. Check that the pin ain’t stickin’ in ’er, an’ if she don’t stop cryin’ walk up an’ down wiv ’er till she do.’

Carrie kissed her husband lightly on the cheek and made for the stairs. She turned and was about to say something when Fred held up his hands once more. ‘I know, get Rachel’s next feed ready,’ he said quickly.

Carrie smiled at him and hurried down the stairs. As she stepped out into the dark night she thought of the gloomy squalor of Bacon Buildings and the smile left her face. Her parents, William and Nellie Tanner, had been forced out of the terraced house in Page Street, the home they had brought the family up in, when her father’s employer George Galloway, who owned the house, decided he was going to make changes. Galloway had now installed a motor mechanic there whom he had hired to look after his new motor vehicles. Carrie’s parents and their youngest son Danny had been forced to find alternative accommodation and they ended up in one of the most dilapidated tenement blocks in Bermondsey. Carrie knew how hard it had been for her father, who had spent almost thirty-seven years as a horsekeeper for Galloway, to look for other employment. He had found a job as watchman at the council depot but it had caused him to become morose and ailing. His fortunes had changed, however, when a man who had befriended her father, Joe Maitland, took him on to manage his warehouse in Dockhead. Carrie was very pleased to see the change in her father now that he had settled into his new job, but she still fretted over her parents, and she had not forgotten her vow that one day she would have enough money to buy them a decent house to live in.

The night was clear and the sky full of stars as she walked from the corner shop in Cotton Lane along River Street, then turned left into Bacon Street. The dark tenement block loomed up on her left and through the broken windows she could see the reflection of the naked gas jets that burned on each landing. There were four block entrances and Carrie entered the far one, climbing the rickety wooden stairs to the third floor. Each landing had four flats, two on each side of the landing. The front doors were almost bare of paint and shadows cast by the gas flame took on weird shapes. Carrie shuddered as she walked along the landing to one of the rear front doors. The sour smell from the communal rubbish bins in the alley below drifted up through a broken window and Carrie grimaced as she knocked on the door.

A wind was getting up. It rattled the window frames as Nellie and her daughter sat talking. Despite the difference in their ages, the two women were strikingly alike, with small smooth-skinned faces and high cheekbones.

At fifty Nellie Tanner was still slim and attractive. Her blue eyes were a shade or two deeper than those of her daughter, but her fair hair was exactly the same shade as Carrie’s. Life had been kind to her and there were few lines on her face, except in the corners of her eyes and around her swanlike neck just beneath the chin. She looked serious though as she confided in her daughter: ‘I dunno, Carrie. I was pleased as punch when yer farvver came ’ome an’ told me Joe Maitland ’ad offered ’im that job. Now I’m not so sure. It ain’t what ’e’s bin used to, but then nor was that watchman’s job wiv the council. Yer farvver’s never bin one ter talk much about ’is work but ’e clams up whenever I ask ’im what ’e’s bin doin’. ’E gets very tired too lately. After ’e ’as ’is tea ’e falls asleep in that chair an’ ’e’s like that till it’s time for bed. ’E’s never bin the same since the stables. ’E really loved those ’orses. I get all ’eavy in ’ere when I fink ’ow that ole goat Galloway treated ’im after a lifetime of work fer ’im,’ Nellie said, putting her clenched fist up to her chest.