The Girl from Cotton Lane (36 page)

Billy smiled appreciatively. ‘I will,’ he replied. ‘I’ll tell ’im straight. An’ fanks, Will.’

Carrie was feeling excited as she dashed about the dining rooms on Christmas Eve. Bessie and the two young helpers were in a festive mood, and between serving the steady stream of customers that morning they helped out in preparing the back room. Carrie wanted it to be a special event, and occasionally she looked at the wall clock behind the counter and glanced expectantly through the wet window for signs of Sharkey.

‘I ’ope Soapy manages ter persuade ’im ter come,’ Bessie remarked. ‘It’ll be a shame if not after all the trouble we’ve bin to.’

‘Soapy won’t let us down,’ Carrie told her. ‘Now go an’ get that big box from the stairs an’ put it be’ind the counter where ’e can’t see it.’

At eleven o’clock precisely Carrie spotted Soapy walking along the lane beside Sharkey and they seemed to be in deep conversation. At the door Sharkey made to turn away but Soapy grabbed his arm and pulled him into the dining rooms.

Sharkey Morris looked puzzled as Carrie came around the counter and took his arm. ‘C’mon, Sharkey, we’ve got a little surprise fer yer,’ she said laughing.

The rest of the customers got up and followed as Carrie steered Sharkey into the back room. Small red candles were set around it and the glow lit up Carrie’s best china which was set out on a spotless white tablecloth. Sharkey blinked once or twice as he was led to a chair and then Bessie came in proudly carrying two plates of bacon and eggs, fried bread and tomatoes. Lizzie followed holding two mugs of steaming tea and Marie had plates of bread and butter.

‘We know that’s yer favourite, Sharkey,’ Carrie said, smiling broadly. ‘We knew yer wouldn’t want to eat alone so we’ve done Soapy a breakfast too. Merry Christmas, luv.’

The elderly carman brought his hand up to his mouth and looked into Carrie’s eyes. ‘I dunno what ter say,’ he murmured, clearly near to tears.

‘Well, I reckon we ought ter get on wiv it before it gets cold,’ Soapy laughed, winking at Carrie and her team of helpers.

The customers were standing in the doorway and they all called out their good wishes to Sharkey before Carrie ushered them out of the room. Soapy had already begun tucking into the food but Sharkey was too overcome to start eating.

‘What a nice gesture,’ he remarked, picking up a slice of bread and putting it down again.

Soapy prodded Sharkey on the forearm with his fork. ‘Oi, are you gonna eat that or shall I eat it for yer?’ he prompted.

Carrie allowed the two men some time to finish their meal then she carried the large cardboard box into the back room and set it down on the floor beside the elderly carman. ‘There’s a few fings in there fer Christmas,’ she said, lifting the lid. ‘There’s also a present fer Mrs Morris from the staff and customers, Sharkey, an’ we all ’ope she gets well very soon.’

‘I dunno what ter say,’ he mumbled again, blowing his nose hard on a red spotted handkerchief.

‘Well, don’t say anyfing. We’re all gonna miss yer, Sharkey,’ Carrie said, going to him and planting a kiss on his forehead.

‘Yeah, that goes fer me, ole pal,’ Soapy added, clearly moved by Sharkey’s response.

It was a sad collection of people who stood in the doorway and watched Sharkey walking away along Cotton Lane with the cardboard box held under his arm and his old friend Soapy walking beside him.

‘It’s a shame when a man like Sharkey Morris ’as ter retire,’ Bessie said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘’E was tellin’ me ’e’s bin drivin’ ’orse-an’-carts since ’e was sixteen.’

‘They don’t come any better,’ Carrie remarked, her memories of the kind man stretching back to when she was very small.

‘D’yer know,’ Bessie began, ‘there was a bloke in our buildin’s . . .’

‘Not now, luv,’ Carrie sighed, hurrying away to get ready for her shopping trip.

Joe Maitland had closed down his warehouse the previous evening until after Christmas and he sat alone in his tastefully decorated flat on Christmas Eve with a glass of Scotch whisky at his elbow and a scattering of papers beside him on the settee. There were the letters from various groups in Bermondsey and Rotherhithe which he had opened, some letters of his own which he had written and not yet posted, and sheets of paper containing lists and information. He had received two letters that morning. The first was from the Bermondsey Communist Party who had pledged their support, and it told of the progress being made. The second letter caused him to ponder. It was from an unknown source. It was unsigned, and it warned him that he would need to tread warily because of certain people who knew of his involvement in organising opposition to the Town Music-Hall project, and were concerned about the way things were going. The writing was barely legible and the spelling childlike, but the message was clear enough. Everyone at the Shad Thames meeting had been invited and only he himself and Ronald James had remained behind to discuss which organisations they should contact. The only other person present then was the big man in the dark suit who had stood guard on the door. Ronald James had assured him that the man was a loyal servant who was also as deaf as a post. There had been a leak from some quarter, however, and Joe could only suspect that it was from someone in one of the groups that had been contacted.

Things had been moving fast, and there had been an article in the
Kentish Mercury
about the uncertain future of the old Town Music Hall. Nothing had been mentioned about a nightclub but the article was important in that it suggested many local people believed the derelict place should be pulled down to make way for workers’ flats, and that would have helped to stoke the fire, Joe thought. There had been other developments too. A housing charity which had been set up by a wealthy family who had had business ties with the area was already making waves about the lack of commitment on the part of certain local councillors in getting the slum blocks pulled down and replaced by modern houses with proper sanitary facilities. Another group very much in the news was the Bermondsey branch of the Communist Party. It had already been on the streets demanding the resignation of the Government and asking local people to vote for its candidates at the next election. Things were looking very favourable, Joe felt, but if the letter was to be taken seriously he would have to be careful.

The front doorbell sounded and Joe started nervously. He got up quickly from his chair and took up the heavy iron poker from the hearth before hurrying down the steep stairs. He opened the door quickly and stood back a pace holding the poker behind his back, but when he saw Carrie standing there with her arms full of parcels he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

‘’Ello, darlin’. Yer look worried. Didn’t yer fink I was comin’?’ she said, stepping into the passageway and reaching up to kiss him on the lips.

Joe smiled as he helped her up the stairs with the parcels, and when she was comfortably seated in his front room he poured her a glass of whisky with a large measure of ginger ale. ‘This’ll do yer good,’ he said, smiling.

Carrie sipped the drink, watching him closely as he quickly gathered up the papers from the settee and placed them away in the sideboard drawer. ‘Was yer expectin’ somebody else?’ she said suddenly.

Joe shook his head. ‘I was jus’ bein’ careful,’ he said, giving her a smile.

‘I could see that,’ she replied. ‘I saw yer try to ’ide that poker. Are yer in trouble, Joe?’

He shook his head dismissively but Carrie could see the look in his eyes. ‘It’s this Macedo business, ain’t it?’ she said, her eyes searching him. ‘Yer got yerself too involved, Joe. Yer should ’ave let somebody else take the lead. Why you?’

His expression changed. ‘I ’ad to,’ he said defensively. ‘Nobody seemed ter know what ter do, or didn’t want ter know. George Galloway wanted ter turn the information over ter the police an’ the rest of ’em were sittin’ there like a load o’ dummies. Besides, I’m committed. I was committed the day my bruvver was murdered.’

‘Yeah, but that was an old score. Yer got yer revenge, Joe. The people who killed yer bruvver are eivver dead or locked up, yer said so yerself. This is a different crowd, an’ it’s a different business. What d’yer wanna do, right all the wrongs?’

Joe picked up his glass of whisky and sat down in the chair facing her. ‘Look, Carrie. Gerry Macedo burned my ware’ouse down an’ in doin’ so ’e almost killed yer farvver,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’ve already told yer that there’s a dangerous crowd be’ind Macedo, the same sort o’ people who beat my bruvver’s brains out an’ ruined our family. My farvver was a fit man who never knew a day’s illness, but he only lasted a year after that. Those bookies who were be’ind the killin’ are all accounted for, it’s true, but their friends an’ ’igher-ups are still on the streets, an’ they’re financin’ Gerry Macedo. If enough people stand up an’ be counted, an’ create merry ’ell wiv those in authority there’s a good chance that Macedo’s crowd are gonna go down the drain. Local people ’ave gotta be prepared ter fight fer the place they live in. If they don’t there’s no chance fer any of us.’

Carrie slipped out of her chair and knelt in front of him, her head resting on his lap. ‘I couldn’t stand it if anyfing ’appened ter you, Joe,’ she said in an almost inaudible voice. ‘Yer’ve made me feel a complete woman. I couldn’t live wivout yer.’

He stroked her hair gently as she nestled against him. ‘I don’t know ’ow all this is gonna end,’ he told her. ‘What we’ve got is somefing special. Don’t let’s get ourselves all screwed up. Let’s take it a day at a time. We can always meet, ’owever rare the occasions, an’ when we do we can make love. The waiting can be good fer us. It makes it that bit special when we are tergevver. Like now, like this minute.’

He leaned forward and slipped out of the chair, sitting down on the thick rug beside her. His arms gently enveloped her and Carrie felt his hot lips pressing against hers as she let herself sink back until he was above her. She sighed to feel how good it was, aware of his hands searching her body, reaching down and gently stimulating her. She felt a delicious sensation as he fervently caressed her, and as her passion mounted she gasped at the intensity of his loving.

It was getting dark outside, and as the swirling mist closed over the busy thoroughfare below the two young people were joined together in a fierce act of love.

In the small office on the top floor of James’s Wharf the manager was just finishing clearing away the various papers and invoices when Ronald James walked in.

‘I thought you’d gone, Mr James,’ he said in surprise.

‘I’ve a few things to finish off,’ the wharf owner replied. ‘You might as well get off home, Gerald. The weather looks like it’s turning for the worse. Don’t worry, I’ll lock up. I shouldn’t be long. Oh, by the way, could you drop this letter in the postbox for me? It won’t go out now until after Christmas but I might forget it otherwise. Have a Merry Christmas, Gerald, and give my best regards to your good wife.’

Gerald Simpson hurried down the stairs, anxious to catch the train and glad that he would not have to face another stock sheet until after Christmas. Silly old fool, he thought to himself as he hurried along Tooley Street. He could have been home hours ago instead of fussing around the place. The trouble with Ronald James was, he never gave his staff any credence, never delegated responsibility. The man was always checking the books, countermanding orders and interfering in everybody’s work. Trade was down this year, and if James didn’t do something about getting enough clients to fill that spare floor space the wharf was going to run into debt. Well, anyway, there was nothing to be done until after Christmas. James would certainly have to pull his socks up in the new year, Gerald thought as he hurried up the steep flight of steps to London Bridge Station.

The subject of Gerald Simpson’s angry thoughts was slumped forward in a swivel chair, his elbows resting on the linoleum-covered desktop. Ronald James glanced up at the large wall clock. It showed ten minutes to five. Bernadene would be entertaining her friends no doubt, he thought with a wry smile. Her stupid friends. They were always calling round and it was always Bernadene who was expected to understand their problems and comfort them. If only she had been able to understand his problems, he thought sadly. If only they had been able to talk to each other more. If he had taken the trouble to find time for her, then maybe he would not be in such a mess now. It was his own fault, though, he knew. He had allowed himself to be drawn in. George Galloway had bullied him into calling the meeting and then that tricky character Maitland had really stirred everything up. Ronald James berated himself for not handling the situation better than he had. Now he was caught with his feet in both camps.

Whatever had possessed him to store that contraband? he asked himself over and over again. The price was good, it was true, but the consequences had proved to be more far-reaching than he would ever have dreamed. One of the wharfingers in the other camp had seen to that. Blackmail. Sheer blackmail. Gerry Macedo would never let him off now, and where would it all end? He had already threatened James, blaming him for not handling the meeting correctly, but what more could he have done without letting the cat out of the bag? He had at least warned Len Bartholomew and Arnold Greenedge, the most influential of the councillors. Surely they could have averted the crisis? Now it seemed all was lost. That bloody Communist demonstration didn’t help either, he thought with distaste. What was there left to do? He would be expected to join the rest of the consortium now that they had decided to concentrate their efforts north of the river, but how could he do that without his friends and business associates discovering his terrible, shameful treachery? What was he expected to do, sell off his property and move out? It was impossible. And what was going to happen to Joe Maitland? They had sworn to finish him once and for all. He would no doubt be fished out of the river one day soon, and Ronald James knew that he would have to take his share of the blame. Perhaps he could have averted all of this had he not been so convincing with his speechmaking. But it was too late now. He felt like a fox being cornered, to be torn to pieces between the hounds. There was no escape.