The Girl from Cotton Lane (32 page)

Widow Longley sold sticky sweets which were kept in glass-lidded trays and licorice sticks as well as golly bars and scented cachous that gave the shop a smell all of its own. Often the local children would peer into the little establishment when they had no coppers to buy any sweets just to sniff in the aroma. The elderly shopowner would then glare at them and pull faces until they departed smartly, or, as in the case of older, more adventurous children, stood their ground and leered back at her. Widow Longley knew the business of everyone in Bermondsey, so it was said, and she was not averse to passing that business on to her few close friends. She was a tall, thin woman, with a few long whiskers on her chin and a pair of tortoise-shell glasses which she wore on the end of her long beak-like nose.

For a few evenings Clara Longley had been watching Billy Sullivan from her shop window and she was intrigued by the fact that he seemed to take the long way home. She had found reason to cross swords with his mother Sadie years ago when the Sullivans were regular visitors to her shop, and ever since that time the two women had merely glared at each other. Widow Longley felt that the eldest Sullivan was one day going to find himself in prison, and she had taken to watching his movements with that in mind.

‘It’s surprising what yer can see from this little shop,’ she told PC Copeland. ‘I watch fer the little fings too. Take that ole man comin’ along wiv the dog. D’yer know every evenin’ that man buys the paper at the shop across the road an’ then ’e puts it in the dog’s mouth an’ it carries it ’ome fer ’im. Then there’s ole Mrs Cornfield from Bacon Buildin’s. I see ’er every mornin’ stand by the tram stop fer a while, but she never gets on a tram. She jus’ watches ’em come an’ go. Then she toddles orf ’ome pleased as punch.’

PC Copeland was grateful for his cup of tea but he did not enjoy the chat very much, until Clara Longley told him about a particular observation she had recently made.

‘Now take that Billy Sullivan for instance,’ she went on. ‘’E comes ’ome from work every evenin’ at the same time an’ fer the past few nights ’e’s passed this turnin’ on the ovver side o’ the road an’ crossed over at Bacon Street. What ’e does that for I don’t know. It’s quicker fer ’im ter walk down this end o’ the turnin’.’

PC Copeland’s ears pricked up at the last snippet of information and he put down his empty cup with a sly grin breaking out on his ugly face. ‘Well p’raps the young feller-me-lad ’as got good reason fer not comin’ in this end,’ he remarked.

The Widow Longley merely nodded and went about tidying up her shelves, oblivious to what was going on in the policeman’s mind.

Danny Tanner finished work early on the morning of the next day. He was due to go back at the turn of the tide to move a couple of empty barges into midstream ready for their journey down to Tilbury. He felt at a loose end and after spending a couple of hours in the Kings Arms and the remainder of the afternoon resting at home, decided to call in to see his friend Billy for a chat before going back on the river. Billy would be home soon he thought, and as he stepped out from the buildings in the evening air and turned towards Page Street he suddenly saw his friend talking with a policeman. The two of them seemed to be arguing and Danny remembered the story going around of the young drunk who was badly beaten up on the wasteground. Billy had told him he was worried about becoming the next target of the sadistic policeman, and young Tanner hurried towards the pair fearing that something bad was going to happen.

As Danny approached he saw the policeman turn and follow Billy towards the wasteground. There was a badly maintained wooden fence running the length of the open land and he saw Billy and the policeman duck under a few broken planks. By the time he reached the fence and followed them in PC Copeland had taken his coat off and was rolling up his shirtsleeves. Billy stood white-faced a few paces away with his hands clenched into fists and his chest heaving as he endeavoured to fill his lungs with air.

‘What’s the trouble, Billy?’ Danny asked as he came up.

‘Piss orf out of it,’ the policeman growled at him.

‘Yer a little bit off yer beat, ain’t yer?’ Danny said quietly.

‘You ’eard me. Piss orf,’ Copeland said, glaring menacingly at the young lighterman.

‘Are yer out ter make a name fer yerself then?’ Danny said, hoping he might deter the policeman from starting the fight.

‘If yer don’t get out of it I’ll make a mess o’ your face after I’ve seen ter young Sullivan,’ the policeman snarled at Danny.

‘Leave us, Danny. I’ll be all right,’ Billy called out to him.

Danny shook his head and turned for a moment as he heard a rustling behind him in the tall weeds. ‘I reckon yer ought ter try me first,’ he said provokingly. ‘Billy’s bin at work all day an’ I’ve just bin kippin’.’

PC Copeland smiled evilly at the young man. ‘Why don’t yer both try yer luck tergevver?’ he asked. ‘Yer’d be no problem.’

Danny shook his head. ‘Oh, no. Yer’d like that, wouldn’t yer? We’d get done fer attackin’ a policeman an’ yer’d ’ave us in the nick where yer could give us a goin’ over wiv the truncheons. ’Ere’ll do us jus’ fine, an’ one at a time. Yer couldn’t nick one of us fer beatin’ yer up, mate. Yer’d never live it down on the beat.’

‘Right then. I’m gonna do yer over good an’ proper,’ Copeland told him, turning to face the young man and ignoring Billy.

Danny slipped off his coat and as he rolled up his sleeves a sudden punch in the face felled him. Billy jumped up from his seat on a large mound of bricks. ‘That wasn’t bloody fair,’ he shouted.

The policeman laughed as Danny slowly rose to his feet and shook his head violently. ‘That’s the first fing yer gotta remember when yer scrap on the street. Defend yerself at all times,’ he leered.

Danny had recovered enough to raise his hands in front of his face and Billy winced as he saw the drips of blood running down from the corner of his friend’s eye. ‘Watch ’im, Danny,’ he shouted.

The young lighterman was slowly circling the bigger man and as he feinted with his left hand Copeland charged in. Danny was ready for him and threw a sharp hard punch which landed square on the policeman’s mouth.

‘Careful, Danny,’ Billy called out.

Copeland rushed in once more only to be stopped by a straight left thrown from the shoulder. He staggered back and Danny pummelled him with a volley of lefts and rights which sent him to his knees. The young man stood back sportingly and waited for the policeman to get to his feet but Copeland suddenly sprang forward and butted him hard in the midriff, bowling him over. He sensed he had the young man at his mercy now and he forgot Billy Sullivan who had jumped up from his seat again. Copeland was kicking out at the fallen man when he was sent sprawling himself by a heavy blow to the back of his bull neck.

‘Right, that does it!’ he shouted, leaving Danny clutching his ribs on the ground as he turned to face Billy. ‘Yer nicked! An’ ’im too!’ he snarled, pointing to Danny as the young man staggered to his feet.

There was a rustling among the high clump of weeds on the edge of the open space and suddenly Florrie Axford appeared.

‘From what I can see of it yer in no position ter nick anybody,’ she said severely, reaching into her apron pocket and taking out her snuffbox. ‘I saw yer attack that boy while ’e was lyin’ there on the ground an’ as far as I’m concerned yer should be locked up yerself.’

PC Copeland glowered at Florrie and turned his back on her while he wiped his bloodied lips on a handkerchief. Danny had recovered enough to grin sheepishly at Billy, and Florrie motioned silently with her thumb for the two young men to get going.

‘I’ll be ’avin’ a word wiv your sergeant when I see ’im,’ she told the angry policeman. ‘Yer a bloody disgrace ter yer uniform. There’s anuvver young lad who might wanna talk ter yer sergeant too.’

Back in the street Florrie wagged her finger at the two young men. ‘Now orf ’ome the two of yer, or I’ll talk ter yer muvvers about this,’ she said sternly, as though she was talking to young children.

Danny smiled fondly at her. ‘’Ow come yer interrupted our little bit o’ fun?’ he joked.

‘Fun? Fun?’ Florrie yelled at them. ‘Maggie Jones was lookin’ fer ’er cat on the wasteground an’ she saw what was goin’ on. She come runnin’ over ter me, an’ it’s a good job she did, or the two of yer would be locked up by now. Take my advice an’ stay away from that big git from now on, or I might not be on ’and next time.’

‘Yes, Florrie,’ Danny said meekly, trying not to laugh.

‘Fanks, Florrie,’ Billy said, giving her a huge wink.

PC Copeland had left the wasteground dabbing his swollen lips with a bloodied handkerchief and Florrie Axford shook her head sadly as she watched him walk off along Bacon Street. ‘I dunno what this area’s comin’ to,’ she sighed. ‘It used ter be such a nice quiet place.’

Carrie was feeling nervous as she worked alongside Bessie Chandler in the dining rooms. It was two weeks since her meeting with Joe Maitland and she had not been able to get him out of her mind. He had phoned her on a couple of occasions on the pretext of finalising the deal for the supplies she had ordered but he had quickly brought the conversation around to her meeting him for a lunchtime drink. The second time he had phoned her Carrie had to finish the conversation when she realised that Fred was watching her closely from the kitchen. She had been a little flustered and passed it off as the pressure of work but she was sure her husband suspected her of planning something. She had tried hard to get the young man out of her mind but she found herself thinking of him constantly. Her life with the staid hardworking Fred was a round of unrelieved boredom. Each evening he would sleep in his favourite armchair and Carrie found it depressing that the bubbling young Rachel had to keep quiet until it was time for her to go to bed. Carrie’s love life was practically non-existent now, and yet inside she still had an intense longing to be loved passionately and fully.

It was a normal weekday. The cafe was full and the two helpers were kept busy. Lizzie, a petite young woman in her twenties, and Marie, a tall, pleasant girl of nineteen, hurried back and forth with cups of tea and coffee and plates of bacon and eggs as well as slices of toast and dripping and tea cakes, constantly joking with the dockers and carmen. Bessie was her usual chatty self, tripping back to the kitchen now and then to help out with the cooking, and Fred occasionally hummed to himself. It was a normal weekday, but for Carrie it was momentous. She had finally decided she would have to see Joe, even though she knew that she might live to regret it. It was while Fred was in the back yard having a quiet smoke that she picked up the phone. She was prepared to cut the conversation short should he walk back into the kitchen, but he remained outside long enough for her quickly to arrange a meeting for the following day.

Later in the evening Carrie made her excuses to Fred. ‘We’ll need some more tablecloths and cleanin’ powders, an’ there’s crockery ter replace. I s’pose I could get most o’ that from the ware’ouses in Brick Lane,’ she said as casually as she could.

Fred glanced up from his paper. ‘I don’t know why yer ’ave ter go over the water,’ he complained, looking at her over his glasses. ‘Surely there’s places nearer. I used ter buy all the stuff down the market.’

Carrie smiled and shook her head in mild reproof. ‘That’s why I’m doin’ the buyin’, Fred. It’s a lot cheaper over Brick Lane an’ they cater fer businesses like ours. Besides, it makes a change ter get out an’ about again.’

Fred nodded. ‘I s’pose yer right,’ he said grudgingly, going back to the paper.

Carrie felt guilty deceiving him but the excitement she had felt since her meeting with Joe Maitland had been simmering inside her and she had been able to think of little else. The buying could be done very quickly locally, and the firm would deliver. Fred hardly ever took any notice of that side of the business and should he query the source of her supplies she would be able to make up some excuse, she felt sure.

At twelve-thirty Carrie slipped up to her room after making arrangements with Lizzie to collect Rachel from school and quickly got ready. Her face felt hot and her heart was racing as she put her head around the door and smiled at her husband before leaving, hoping that he would not comment on her smart appearance. Fred was busy rolling dough and he mumbled a goodbye, hardly bothering to look up at her.

‘Tell Rachel I’ll be back at teatime,’ Carrie called as she let herself out.

At one-thirty Carrie stepped down from the tram at Long Lane and hurried to the caterers’ suppliers. She had arranged to meet Joe at two o’clock, but by the time she had placed her order and made arrangements for delivery and then walked to the Jolly Compasses behind Tower Bridge Road it was ten minutes past.

Joe was waiting for her and he smiled widely as Carrie walked into the little pub. The young woman felt her mouth become dry and her insides tremble as he took her arm and led her to a table.

‘I was beginnin’ ter get worried,’ he told her, ‘I thought yer’d changed yer mind.’

Carrie shook her head slowly, her eyes meeting his. ‘I ’ad ter come, but it was difficult. I’ve bin buyin’ supplies. Fred finks I’ve gone over ter Brick Lane.’

‘We’ve got some time tergevver then,’ he remarked, his eyes not leaving hers. ‘D’yer know, yer look very nice.’

‘Well, fank you,’ she replied, looking down at his glass of beer.

Joe suddenly laughed. ‘I’ve not asked yer what yer care ter drink. What’ll it be?’