The Girl from Cotton Lane (38 page)

One thing was certain, she told herself, Fred would never know from her. She could never bring herself to hurt him unnecessarily. He was a good, kind man despite everything. He had taken her as a bride even though he knew that his feelings for her would not be reciprocated in the way he might wish. Nevertheless he had provided a home for her and now she had her own independence inasmuch as she held her own bank book. There was just ninety pounds in the account, but it was her savings, the money she was assiduously putting aside to help get her parents out of the slum block in Bacon Street. She had never really denied to herself that it was the reason for her marrying Fred in the first place. Whatever happened in the future that money was going to remain in her account until there was enough for her to achieve her goal.

Fred was already snoring and Carrie picked up the evening paper. There was one item of local interest which caught her eye. Beneath a picture of the Town Music Hall there was a report which said that the old building was being demolished to make way for a new block of workers’ flats. The article contained a brief history of the old music hall and mentioned that its fate had caused dissent among the local councillors and two of them, Councillors Bartholomew and Greenedge, had resigned. Carrie’s thoughts turned immediately to Joe Maitland. He could take pride in the fact that it was his determination which had helped thwart Gerry Macedo’s plans to corrupt business in the riverside boroughs for his own criminal ends. The local organisations and clubs had been successful in their agitation, but it seemed very sad that one of the architects of the victorious campaign had seen fit to take his own life.

It had been a busy day at the Druid Street warehouse and during the late afternoon Joe Maitland called his manager into the office. ‘Will, I’m takin’ a young lad on, an’ ’e starts next week. I don’t want yer luggin’ those cases around, d’yer ’ear?’

‘I can manage, Joe. It’s no great ’ardship,’ William replied firmly, looking his boss in the eye.

‘I know that, Will, but those provisions are not like ’andlin’ the regular stuff. They’re bloody ’eavy. I’ve seen Cruncher puffin’ an’ blowin’, an’ ’e’s strong enough. You take it easy, Will, yer not a young man anymore. Let the ovvers do the graft an’ you jus’ keep yer eye on ’em. Yer’ll ’ave enough ter do keepin’ tags on all the stock. Besides, I’m buyin’ more an’ more provisions. They’re goin’ very well as a matter o’ fact an’ I’m gonna need more space. As it ’appens I’ve jus’ completed a deal on a site for a new ware’ouse. It’s in Wilson Street, along from Galloway’s yard.’

‘I’m pleased for yer, Joe,’ William replied, leaning back in his chair. It was welcome news that there was another young man starting, he thought. Those cases were getting heavy and Joe was right, he wasn’t a young man anymore. If Nellie had had her way he would have retired when he was sixty-five, but he had insisted he would remain with Joe Maitland as long as he was wanted. He was now turned sixty-six and the heavy lifting was telling on him. He realised though that he might be forced to stop, along with everyone else.

‘There’s a lot o’ talk about a General Strike,’ he remarked after a while. ‘D’yer fink it’ll mean everybody’s gotta come out?’

Joe shrugged his shoulders. ‘I fink if it does come off it’ll stop the public transport an’ the docks o’ course. As fer the factories, I should say the large ones’ll be affected but the smaller ones will stay open. It’s a matter o’ conscience. Personally I fink the miners ’ave got a genuine grievance, but as a businessman I shouldn’t be sayin’ that, should I?’

William stared down at his clasped hands. ‘I was never in the union. Galloway wouldn’t ’ear of it, as yer know, but even ’e ’ad ter knuckle down. Accordin’ ter one of ’is carmen who comes in the Kings Arms the unions are talkin’ wiv ’im. Now ’e’s got that ovver yard in Wilson Street an’ ’e’s runnin’ lorries ’e’s got ter be careful ’ow ’e treats ’em or ’e won’t get a look in at the docks an’ wharves. Mind yer, there was a time I never thought I’d see the day ole George Galloway ’ad the union in ’is yard.’

Joe settled down to his paperwork as soon as William Tanner left the office. It had been quiet lately, he thought. Too quiet, perhaps. There was little news filtering his way from contacts in East London and he wondered if he had been overcautious in varying his route home and securing his flat since he received the warning letter. The nights were getting lighter now and as time went on the chances of his coming to harm would diminish. Nevertheless he would still have to be careful, he realised. Gerry Macedo and his cronies were not the sort of people who were likely to forget.

In Page Street the new Mrs Smith had quickly asserted her dominance over Broomhead and she had made him miserable. He was living in her house, she declared, and subject to her rules and regulations. He had been required to smarten himself up, despite his protestations that totters did not usually go out on their carts in pinstripe suits. He had had to be very careful of his footwear too. Alice would not let him into the house if there was a trace of horse dung on his boots, and she also insisted that his horse be smartened up, something which irked Broomhead more than her demands on his person. That scruffy nag had become a laughing stock among his pals, or rather he had, he thought sullenly. Braiding a drayhorse or a thoroughbred was one thing but trying to make that bag of bones look anything other than a cross between a donkey and a mule was like asking him to go to church every Sunday.

Broomhead had not had the worst of it, however. One Saturday evening Alice looked up from her sewing and said, ‘I fink we should go ter church termorrer.’

Broomhead shook his head vigorously and shuddered. ‘No fear, Alice,’ he protested. ‘I’d be uneasy in church. Besides, Sunday mornin’s I ’ave me lay in.’

‘Well, I fink yer better ferget yer lay in, Bill,’ she told him. ‘I’m goin’ ter church, an’ if the neighbours see me goin’ on me own they’ll fink we don’t get on anymore.’

‘Sod the neighbours,’ Broomhead blurted out. ‘Why should yer worry about what the neighbours fink? There’s that skinny ole cow Florrie Axford. She looks like a good dinner wouldn’t do ’er any ’arm. Then there’s that dopey mare Maisie Dougall. I reckon she’s about as attractive as the back of a number sixty-eight tram. Then there’s that Maudie Mycroft woman. Fancy yer bein’ worried what the likes o’ them fink! Maudie couldn’t afford ter criticise the likes o’ you. She’s a scatty mare too. I don’t know who’s the worst, ’er or Maisie. As fer the rest of ’em, sod ’em, that’s what I say.’

‘Well, if yer don’t come ter church termorrer there’ll be no dinner fer yer, an’ that’s final,’ Alice told him.

‘Well I’m not, so there,’ the totter replied, thinking already that maybe he had gone too far.

Alice folded her arms and stared into the fire, while Broomhead sighed deeply. Alice was sulking, and if there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was Alice sulking. It was better than her attacking him with an axe or a carving knife, but he couldn’t stand it. It could go on for days, as he knew from experience.

‘All right, I’ll go wiv yer,’ he said quickly. ‘But don’t expect me ter sing.’

Broomhead’s capitulation cheered Alice up no end and she even condescended to make him a suet pudding for supper.

Next morning Alice and her totter husband left for church arm-in-arm.

‘Good mornin’, Mrs Sullivan. We’re just orf ter church,’ Alice called out across the street.

‘Keep ’im away from the communion wine,’ Sadie mumbled.

‘Good mornin’, Mrs Axford. Me an’ Bill are just orf ter church,’ Alice informed her.

‘Don’t tell all the bloody street,’ Broomhead muttered.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Dougall. We’re just orf ter church, me an’ Bill.’

‘That’s nice for yer,’ Maisie remarked, mumbling an oath under her breath.

By the time the couple had left the turning everyone knew that they were off to church, but Alice was not finished. ‘I must pop in the sweet shop,’ she said, pulling on Broomhead’s arm. ‘Mornin’, Mrs Longley. Me an’ Bill are just orf ter church.’

Widow Longley gave Broomhead a frosty stare. She had had reason to fall out with the totter in the past and had often remarked to her friends that in her opinion Alice Johnson was two pennies short of a shilling. ‘Mind ’e don’t frighten the children,’ she said, with a tilt at humour.

Broomhead was glad that they finally reached St James’s Church without meeting any more neighbours, but when they took their seats in the pews and the organist started up Alice dug him hard in the ribs and pointed to the hymn-book in front of him. The organist was playing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, a hymn which Broomhead rather liked, and he realised that there was nothing else for it. His bass voice resounded across the rows of pews and Alice’s face flushed with embarrassment as some of the congregation turned to stare at where the noise was coming from. Broomhead was secretly enjoying himself. He was sure that after his little exhibition of hymn-singing Alice would think twice before she ever dragged him off to church again.

He had miscalculated, however. When the sermon was over and his voice once more filled the packed church the vicar was overjoyed. At the end of the service he looked up to the stained-glass window and thanked the Lord for answering his prayer, then he hurried over to the departing couple.

‘I really should congratulate you on your fine rendering of “Onward Christian Soldiers”,’ he said, holding his hands together as though in prayer. ‘Absolutely top-hole. I must ask your name.’

Broomhead grinned widely and Alice simply purred with pleasure at being noticed. ‘I’m Bill Smith an’ this is my good lady, Alice,’ he replied.

‘Well, Mr Smith, I’d like to invite you to join our choir. Do you know, I prayed to the Lord to send me a bass singer and he’s answered my prayer. Say you’ll join us, Mr Smith. Please say you’ll join us.’

‘Well, I’d like to, but . . .’

‘But nuffink,’ Alice cut in, kicking her husband smartly on his shin. ‘Of course you will, won’t you, dearest?’

The sight of Alice glaring at him and the vicar fawning over him was too much. ‘All right,’ Broomhead replied. ‘I’ll give it a try.’

‘That’s all we ask,’ the vicar said, clapping his hands together like an excited child. ‘Monday evening, seven-thirty sharp. We can expect to be through by nine-thirty. I look forward to seeing you then.’

Once outside Alice was already grooming him for the part. ‘Now listen, yer’ll ’ave ter change yer boots. I don’t want yer smellin’ the church out wiv horse dung. Yer can put anuvver shirt on. I don’t want yer showin’ me up, d’yer ’ear?’

Broomhead nodded dutifully and let his shoulders sag as they walked home to Page Street. It looked as though he might have to find himself suffering a sudden unexplained attack of tonsillitis on Monday morning. Or maybe it should come on suddenly towards the evening, he decided. Sitting around Alice all day Monday would be worse than joining the choir.

Chapter Twenty-Two

On the 3rd of May, 1926 a General Strike was declared. The transport workers and rivermen joined the miners and the country was plunged into chaos. Trams and buses stopped, the railways were brought to a standstill, riverside cranes were idle, and hardly a horse cart or a lorry was to be seen on the roads. On the cobblestones outside the major docks and wharves meetings took place, and unexpectedly Bradleys’ Dining Rooms in Cotton Lane enjoyed the busiest spell they had had for a long time.

It did not last, however, and after the first two days very few customers walked through the doors. Carrie decided to keep her two helpers on, even though there was little for them to do. Bessie found it infuriating having to stand about doing nothing and so she found a bucket and mop and proceeded to wash down the paintwork. Her industry was infectious, and Lizzie scrubbed the floors and the tables while Marie helped Fred clean out the kitchen. For the first time in ages Carrie found she had time to herself and took Rachel for walks to the park and along the deserted riverside. She had not been able to see Joe Maitland very much during the past few months. Now she had the time, but she needed an excuse to get away from the dining rooms.

Danny called on his friend Billy Sullivan on the fourth morning of the strike. Billy’s firm had been very slack and the only job they were working on was the old tramshed in New Cross. Now that the drivers and conductors were on strike their pickets had confronted the building workers, and after a brief discussion Billy and the other labourers had decided not to cross the picket lines and were all sent home.

‘What d’yer fancy doin’ then, Danny?’ Billy asked.

‘Well, we could go up ter Dock’ead an’ stand around Shad Thames fer a while. They say there’s a load o’ blacklegs gonna try an’ get inter Butler’s Wharf,’ Danny suggested.

The two young men sauntered off along the Jamaica Road, Danny upright with his shoulders held back proudly while Billy shuffled along beside him with his distinctive rolling gait, his shoulders hunched forward. When they reached Shad Thames they found dockers and rivermen gathered there in a crowd and their mood was decidedly hostile.

‘If they try ter get past us we’ll do ’em,’ someone shouted.

‘If they try it ’ere we’ll turn the bloody vans over,’ another added.

Soon union officials arrived and told the men to stay within the law but protest verbally if there were any attempts to break the strike with non-union volunteers.

‘On yer way,’ one irate docker called out. ‘If they try it ’ere we’ll do ’em in.’