The Girl from Cotton Lane (34 page)

‘An’ what’s the other action you have in mind?’ the elderly member with the beard asked.

Joe looked around at the blank faces. ‘We could form our own consortium and buy the property ourselves,’ he said with conviction.

The speaker looked from one to another of them. ‘Well, gentlemen?’

Galloway leaned forward in his chair. ‘I say we should turn over everyfing we ’ave ter the police,’ he said. ‘Let them deal wiv the application fer an entertainments licence. If they know what’s goin’ on they’ll oppose it.’

Joe Maitland looked at the old man. ‘It won’t work,’ he said quickly. ‘The company buyin’ in is a legitimate company. Licence or not it’ll mean Macedo’s got ’is foot in the door. ’E’ll bide ’is time. There’ll be money spread about an’ a few charities serviced. Once Macedo’s crowd get a foot’old in the area there’ll be no stoppin’ ’em. You should know that, George.’

Galloway was on his feet. ‘What yer sayin’, yer young pup?’ he snarled.

‘Are yer gonna deny you an’ Macedo were pals once?’ Joe asked in a steady voice.

‘I’m not denyin’ anyfing,’ Galloway shouted. ‘I did know Macedo. We did the boxin’ circuits tergevver. I’ve drunk wiv the man in the past, but I was never involved in anyfing illegal wiv ’im, or anybody else fer that matter.’

Joe Maitland waited for the noise to die down. ‘My information is that it was Gerry Macedo who burned my ware’ouse down, which nearly took the life o’ Will Tanner, your friend an’ loyal worker fer a good number o’ years, George. Don’t fink people’s eyes an’ ears are shut ter what’s takin’ place around ’ere. If we go down there’ll be nobody ter blame except us.’

The speaker raised his arms for silence, then he looked down at his clasped hands. ‘It seems to me that there are three main proposals put forward,’ he said quietly, looking up at the gathering. ‘Do we have any more forthcoming? Well then, I’ll remind you what the options are in case you’ve forgotten. First we have Maitland’s initial proposal that we inform the local clubs and organisations and encourage them to make their voices heard. Is there a seconder?’

The elderly man raised his hand.

‘Then we have his other proposal that we form a consortium, ’ the speaker went on. ‘Any seconder to that proposal?’

No one responded and Ronald James looked over his spectacles at the men around him. ‘The last proposal is that we turn all our information over to the police. Is there anyone who wishes to second the last proposal?’

Again there was silence and the speaker adjusted his position on his chair before continuing. ‘Well, gentlemen, we have one seconded proposal on the table. I think we should take a vote. All those in favour of informing the local groups of our information, raise your hands.’

Only George Galloway and another man sitting near him kept their hands down.

‘Those against.’

Galloway raised his hand and the other man sat passive.

‘We have ten for, one against and one abstention,’ the speaker said, looking pleased with himself. ‘I say the vote is carried. I’ll need a few of you to remain behind to help me formulate the information. We’ll also need a list of known groups in the area who might make use of our information. Can I ask you for one to remain behind, Mr Maitland?’

Galloway had risen to his feet to button up his navy blue overcoat, and as Joe Maitland passed he glowered at him. ‘There was no need ter say what yer did,’ he said in a dark voice.

Joe looked him in the eye. ‘I didn’t mention everyfing, George. Yer can fank me fer that at least,’ he replied.

Galloway returned his stare and was about to reply, but instead he turned on his heel and left the room.

During the autumn Carrie had managed to meet Joe Maitland on only two occasions, and each time it was at his flat in Bermondsey Square. The time they spent in each other’s arms was far too short, she regretted, but the love she felt for him helped to sustain her through the long arduous days and miserable nights. Her husband Fred now seemed to have little interest in her as a woman and for that Carrie was grateful, although she found it disturbing that he could be so jealous of her and suspicious of her movements yet uninterested in making love to her. Perhaps it was her marrying him without ever plainly professing her love which had finally made him lose interest in her, she thought. But there was Rachel, and the baby she had lost so early in her pregnancy. There were times in the past when he had been eager for her body, and it hurt her to remember how she had lain beneath him praying for him to finish loving her. It had become a trial as the months and years slipped by, and now Fred seemed to be ageing fast. He was still only fifty-two but he looked older, and his whole life seemed to be absorbed by the dining rooms now. Even the occasional visit to the pictures or the music-hall on Saturday night was always at Carrie’s suggestion, otherwise Fred would not have bothered to make the effort at all.

The only bright thing in her life apart from her rare meetings with Joe was Rachel. She was six years old now and growing into a tall, beautiful young girl with flaxen hair, an oval face with rosebud lips and tiny ears, and pale blue eyes which were always bright and enquiring. Bessie adored her, as did the two helpers Lizzie and Marie who often took her out for walks or collected her from school. She seemed to be the only person Fred lavished his love on, and Carrie came to realise that maybe he was holding on to the one thing he had left in his life as their loveless marriage grew cold.

On the last Saturday before Christmas Danny Tanner was married to Iris Brody and the reception was held at the Brodys’ house in Wilson Street, a little backstreet a few turnings along from Page Street. Billy Sullivan acted as Danny’s best man and very soon became drunk and decided that he should give a demonstration in the art of fisticuffs to the Brody family, despite Annie McCafferty’s pleading with him to behave. Joe Brody pushed him away with a sweep of his huge hand and his eldest son Vic did likewise. Fred the middle son felt he should teach the Sullivan boy a lesson and was promptly knocked to the ground in the back yard. He had had enough and it was left to Paul, the youngest of the Brody tribe, to put the ex-boxer in his place. Billy was in his thirties and past his best but at twenty-eight he considered Paul to be a mere stripling as they good-naturedly shaped up to each other.

‘Right then. First one ter go down is the loser,’ Billy announced.

‘Are yer sure yer wanna fight me?’ Paul said.

‘Sure as yer got an ugly face,’ Billy slurred.

‘If I was as ugly as you I’d only go out when it’s dark,’ Paul told him.

‘Well, I fink yer the ugliest bloke in Bermon’sey,’ Billy went on, ‘an’ jus’ fer that I’m gonna try an’ change the shape of yer face. Yer’ll come ter fank me fer it one day.’

The two sparred and circled around each other menacingly, and suddenly Billy dropped his hands to his sides. ‘Look, if yer keep on dancin’ round me like a fairy yer gonna tire yerself out,’ he laughed. ‘Why don’t yer sling a punch?’

The offer was too good to turn down and Paul immediately threw a straight right hand which felled Billy.

‘I reckon that makes me the winner,’ he said grinning.

Billy staggered to his feet and shook his head from side to side. ‘That don’t count. I wasn’t ready,’ he moaned.

‘It was you who told me ter sling a punch,’ Paul reminded him.

‘C’mon, ugly. Let’s see what yer made of,’ Billy taunted him, circling around with his fists held high in front of his face.

Paul threw another straight right hand and this time it caught Billy on the nose. Blood trickled down his chin as he stepped back a pace.

‘First blood ter you. Now I’m gonna really do yer,’ Billy growled.

The impending fight was cut short sharply by Iris’s mother Phyllis, who stepped into the back yard with a pail of water and promptly threw it over the two young men.

‘Right now, get inside an’ be’ave yerselves,’ she scolded them. ‘Yer upsettin’ Iris, an’ on ’er weddin’ day too.’

Annie was sitting next to Carrie in the small parlour and as her bloodied young man walked into the room she shook her head disapprovingly. ‘Billy Sullivan, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ she told him. ‘Just look at your face, and you’re soaking wet. Go and get cleaned up this minute.’

Billy grinned with embarrassment and then attempted to look stern. ‘I ’ope yer not gonna order me about like that when we’re married, Annie,’ he said with a sly smile.

‘If you behave like that I will,’ she replied.

‘Yer mean yer will marry me?’ he asked, his face lighting up.

Annie saw the amusement on Carrie’s face and she struggled to remain serious. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t know if I could put up with all this fighting.’

Billy left the room to get cleaned up and Carrie turned to her embarrassed friend. ‘If yer ever do marry that feller yer gonna ’ave ter get used ter boxin’, Annie,’ she laughed. ‘An’ if yer lucky enough ter be blessed wiv children an’ they’re boys, yer gonna be ’ard-pressed ter keep ’em out o’ the ring.’

Annie’s face was anxious. ‘I hope not. I wouldn’t want children of mine to become interested in boxing, Carrie,’ she fretted.

‘Tell me, Annie, are yer intendin’ ter marry Billy?’ Carrie asked her.

Annie looked down at her clasped hands. ‘I love him, Carrie, but Billy’s got this dream. He wants that gymnasium. I think I’m going to lose him before I’ve really got him,’ she said quietly.

‘But yer saw Billy’s face when ’e was jokin’ wiv yer a minute ago,’ Carrie said encouragingly. ‘Yer can see ’e wants ter marry yer.’

‘Yes, perhaps he does,’ Annie said with a sad smile. ‘But we’d need a place to live and things to buy for the house. Every penny Billy earns he saves to make that gymnasium of his come true. I don’t want him to give up his dreams but he can’t have both, Carrie. It’s just not possible.’

Carrie squeezed Annie’s arm affectionately. ‘You’ll get married to Billy, an’ ’e’ll get that gymnasium ’e wants so badly. I just know,’ she said.

The small house was crowded to capacity and people were coming in to take a drink with the newly-weds and offer them their good wishes. The food had all been eaten and as darkness closed over the street the celebrations proper got under way. A huge woman sat at the piano pounding out the latest tunes while Fred Brody accompanied her on the banjo and people got up to dance, constantly treading on the toes of everyone around them. Fred and Vic Brody had been to the pub for more bottles of beer and Billy sat in a corner chatting to Paul, their differences forgotten. Iris Brody went around with sandwiches, and in the back kitchen Grandma Brody sat with her arms folded, her face like thunder at being pushed into second place for once.

‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ she moaned to Granny Forester. ‘In my day yer said yer vows an’ went orf ter the seaside fer the day, if yer was lucky. Kids terday don’t know what it is ter want. Take our Iris. She’s got a place ter live, an’ they’re goin’ orf ter Brighton fer a couple o’ days.’

‘That’s nice fer ’em,’ Granny Forester said wistfully.

Grandma Brody nodded. ‘They’ve got two rooms next door but one. Mrs Brown let ’em ’ave ’er two upstairs rooms. ’Er lodger won’t want ’em any more.’

‘Won’t ’e?’

‘Nah. ’E got two years ’ard labour.’

‘What did ’e get that for?’ Granny Forester asked.

‘A pair o’ shoes.’

‘A pair o’ shoes?’

‘’S’ right,’ Grandma Brody said. ‘’E walked out o’ Ringleaders in the Ole Kent Road wiv a new pair o’ shoes ’e ’adn’t paid for an’ left ’is old ones in the box.’