The Girl from Cotton Lane (41 page)

‘I’m sure he could,’ Butterfield remarked. ‘What we’d like to know now is, what are your future plans? In a few words, is the little war between yourself and Eastern Enterprises over?’

Joe nodded. ‘As long as I’m left alone ter get on wiv my business the war’s over an’ the letter collects dust.’

Butterfield looked satisfied. ‘I’m sure that my people will be pleased with the outcome of our little chat,’ he said. ‘Our company is moving with the times and sadly some of us outlive our usefulness. A fact of life, Mr Maitland, and something you’ll no doubt read about in the papers very shortly. I wish you good luck with your ventures. I’ll get Marks to run you home,’ he concluded as he stood up and held out his hand.

Joe felt the soft clammy grasp as he took Butterfield’s hand and matched his steady gaze. He was determined not to let the man see how happy he felt. He knew that the letter he had received from Ronald James and placed into safe keeping was almost certainly the only reason he was being allowed to leave the East End factory alive, and as he walked out of the office and crossed the yard he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Martin Butterfield was feeling anything but happy as he stood at the gate watching the car pull away, and his face became serious as he went directly back to his office. Maitland might have been bluffing, he thought, but it was unlikely. The man was too cool. He knew he held a trump card. Fortunately he did not hold the whole suit, Butterfield reflected as he picked up the telephone.

Carrie Bradley held a meeting with the staff as soon as she got back from the hospital and it was agreed that Bessie Chandler should take over Fred’s role in the kitchen for the time being. Lizzie and Marie were both efficient workers and established favourites with the customers and they were taken on full-time, which pleased the young women. The arrangement suited Carrie, who knew that all of her time would be taken up with caring for Fred as well as their daughter. She would have to get an experienced cook as soon as possible, she realised, but for now the dining rooms could function almost as normal. There was a breathing space at the moment, while the General Strike was on and trade had slumped considerably at the cafe.

As soon as she had made the necessary arrangements Carrie hurried off to Joe’s flat. He had been on her mind constantly, and even while she sat at Fred’s bedside full of guilt Carrie had not been able to stop herself worrying over his safety. Her heart was thumping in her chest as she climbed the front steps and rang the bell. The footsteps on the stairs made her almost jump for joy and when Joe opened the front door she threw herself into his arms.

‘I thought I’d never see yer again,’ she cried, burying her head in his chest.

‘It’s all right,’ he said quietly, gently patting her back. ‘There was nuffink ter worry about.’

Carrie looked up into his face, her eyes clouded with tears. ‘I saw those men wiv yer an’ I expected the worst,’ she sobbed.

Joe took her hand in his and led the way up to his flat, and when they closed the door behind them she was in his arms, her lips pressing on his urgently and her body curled against him. After all the distress the moment was especially precious. With the future so uncertain Carrie did not know how much longer they could enjoy such time together.

The late afternoon was quiet outside and in the top-floor flat Carrie sat talking to Joe, struggling to contain her sadness.

‘I can’t leave ’im, ’e needs me more than ever, Joe. Yer mus’ understand,’ she implored him.

Joe nodded sadly. ‘I understand, but we can still meet whenever yer get the time, ’owever brief,’ he replied, reaching out and taking her hands in his. ‘I know yer can’t leave ’im, an’ I wouldn’t want yer to. Jus’ say yer’ll try ter come ter me whenever yer can.’

‘I will, I will,’ she said, choking back her tears. ‘I love yer, Joe. I’d die if I lost yer.’

He stood up and gently pulled her to her feet. ‘Fings are gonna work out jus’ fine, you’ll see,’ he said softly, stroking her back. ‘I don’t fink I’ll be bovvered by Macedo an’ ’is villains again, an’ we’ll find time ter be tergevver.’

Carrie felt the warmth of his body against her and she lifted her face to his. ‘I want yer ter love me, Joe,’ she whispered. ‘Love me now.’

On Tuesday, 11 May the General Strike was over, and on the following Saturday Billy Sullivan and Annie McCafferty were married in St Joseph’s Church. Billy intended to have lots of babies with Annie but he had to admit to himself that it might have been a little more proper to have waited at least until the ring had been placed on Annie’s finger. The young bride looked radiant as she was escorted down the aisle by William Tanner and her happiness was overflowing. It mattered little to her that she had gone to the altar unchaste. She welcomed the baby growing inside her with all her heart. There had been too much sorrow and loneliness in her life for her to feel anything but joy on this special day.

Sadie Sullivan cried throughout the service. She had despaired of the day she would see her eldest son take the vows. Annie looked a picture, she thought. Her radiant smile said it all, and Sadie had noticed her eyes. There was a certain sparkle to them, and Sadie remembered well the last time Daniel had told her that her eyes were sparkling. She had been a few weeks pregnant with Shaun at the time.

Danny Tanner was the best man and he had been instructed by Sadie to steer Billy away from any likelihood of trouble. ‘’E’s gonna be the same as you, Danny,’ she told him. ‘Yer’ve both got responsibilities now, an’ besides, yer gettin’ too old ter fight. There’s Billy wheezin’ like a concertina an’ still finkin’ ’e’s the best around ’ere.’

‘’E was once, Sadie,’ Danny said.

‘I know that, son,’ she replied, ‘but the war’s took its toll on ’im like the rest of us. Tell ’im ter save ’is strength. I’ve a feelin’ ’e’s gonna need it ter push the pram.’

‘She ain’t, is she?’ Danny laughed.

‘Who knows? Yer better ask Billy,’ Sadie said mysteriously.

The following Saturday Joe Maitland was visited by the police and subsequently charged with receiving stolen property. The warehouse at Druid Street was full of canned provisions and tinned meat when the police arrived and Joe could not help but laugh at the irony of it all. He had built his business up from shady wheeling and dealing, being prepared to take the risks involved, but this last consignment had been bought in good faith. The price had been right and the import certificates looked to be in order, but the shipping agent could not be traced and the police told him that the large number of cases in his warehouse were part of a stolen consignment.

The awful truth dawned on Joe that same day when he read in the newspaper that Gerry Macedo, a well-known figure in the East End of London, had met his death in mysterious circumstances. His body, bound hand and foot, had been recovered from the River Thames at Wapping Basin. Joe remembered how Martin Butterfield had told him to watch the newspapers. It seemed that Gerry Macedo had finally reached the end of his usefulness to Eastern Enterprises. It also looked very much like he had been set up too. Well, there was one more card to play, Joe thought.

Frank Fuller had been waiting patiently at his lodgings for a visit and as he shaved in front of the smoky mirror he whistled tunelessly. He could feel the vibration on his lips and judge the length of the notes by the shape of his mouth, but what the whistling sounded like was lost to the bulky figure as he pulled the razor down his stubbled face.

Frank Fuller had heard the last sound he would ever hear during the Mons retreat, and as always when he faced a situation that required fortitude and determination he recalled the events of that fatal day in his mind. Lance Corporal Fuller of the 1st Royal West Kents, batman to Major Ronald James, had stood at the officer’s side in the trench and waited for the whistle to sound. The shelling had been relentless since just after dawn and the casualties were high. Now the remnants of A company were poised to counter-attack, and as the major sounded his whistle the men clambered up out of the trench and dashed forward across the devastated field in the bright August sunlight.

Shells were still coming over and men fell to the left and right as explosions deafened the splutter of machine-gun fire. Corporal Fuller stayed close to the major who was waving his revolver in the direction of the German trenches to urge his men on, and saw him fall. Fuller could have gone on to the relative safety of the first abandoned enemy trench but instead he ran to his officer. Major James had lost his steel helmet and was bleeding from a head wound, but he was alive. Corporal Fuller pulled the lighter man up on to his shoulder and staggered the hundred yards to the safety of the trench through withering fire. It was only after the major had been handed over to the medical team that Fuller left the trench, and was immediately blown back into it by a shell exploding a few feet away. Apart from one or two minor splinter wounds he was unhurt, but his hearing had gone. For his heroic action in saving the major’s life Fuller earned the Military Medal, and Ronald James’s eternal gratitude. When both men were invalided out of the army and James returned to his business he had taken Frank Fuller on as his valet and general man.

Ronald James’s suicide had shocked the devoted man and he knew that one day he would be called upon to bear witness, just as the major had warned. He had been present at the meeting in Shad Thames as well as the pub meeting the major had had with Macedo, and he had seen the suicide verdict declared and nothing happen, but now things seemed to be moving. After reading of the East End villain’s death in the newspapers and receiving the letter from Joe Maitland, he realised that now was the time, and he was ready.

Frank Fuller finished shaving and then put on his coat and hat to take his usual morning walk from his lodgings in a quiet Peckham Street. The sun was shining as he stepped out of the house and glanced along the turning before crossing the road. He saw the motor car parked outside the doctor’s house but he could not hear the engine roar into life, nor the sound of the car drawing quickly away from the kerb.

A few seconds later the car roared out of the turning leaving Frank Fuller lying dead in the gutter.

The dining rooms in Cotton Lane were continuing to flourish despite Fred’s absence from the kitchen. Carrie ran the business with fortitude, dividing her time between caring for her husband and supervising her willing staff. Fred’s stroke had left him paralysed down one side and he could only move about with great difficulty. His speech was slurred and he had become prone to bouts of deep depression. Carrie had to wash him, feed him, and in effect make herself responsible for his survival. Fred’s condition had caused Rachel to become a very grown-up seven year old, however. She had learned to feed him, help her mother tend to his daily needs, and make herself generally useful about the house.

Carrie’s trying days were filled with worries. Joe’s business had been forced to close and her father was now out of work and living on his meagre old-age pension. Joe’s case was to be heard at the Old Bailey and the strain of waiting had affected him badly. He had lost his devil-may-care attitude, and only on the very rare occasions that he and Carrie found time to be together could the two of them briefly forget the trouble and torment in both their lives. The need for a cook to replace Fred in the kitchen was another big worry for Carrie. The effervescent Bessie was coping well but she was not afraid to admit that being a kitchen helper was more to her liking than being solely responsible for the cooking. The dock trade was booming again now and as customers continued to fill the popular dining rooms in Cotton Lane Bessie sweated away in the hot kitchen and Lizzie and Marie shared the serving and waiting on tables. Carrie was hard pushed with the ordering of supplies, maintaining the books and caring for Fred, and it was a great relief to her when Danny walked in the cafe one morning and brightly declared that he had found the ideal replacement for Fred.

Whenever Danny was working downriver he invariably visited a riverside coffee stall in Wapping which was run by an effeminate character known to everyone as Corned Beef Sam. The stall itself was a ramshackle monstrosity of galvanised sheeting, pieces of timber and weather-board nailed together to produce what many of the locals described as ‘a bloody disgrace to the neighbourhood’. The stall had wheels, and in the distant past it had been hauled to its present site as a temporary measure. The council objected, the locals objected, and efforts were made to get rid of the eyesore, but to the customers of Corned Beef Sam the stall was a godsend. Sam sold the best and cheapest sandwiches for miles around and his tea was always hot and strong. The Gas Board threatened to cut off his gas, the Water Board threatened to cut off the water and the newly appointed food inspector tried his hardest to catch Sam out, but the resilient character prevailed.

Sam was now in his mid-thirties and was finding it difficult not to become disillusioned. The rates were going up, his old copper boiler was playing up, and to add to his troubles the local Council had informed him that his contraption would have to be removed while they did major repairs to the road.

‘I’m bleedin’ upset, really I am,’ he moaned in his effeminate voice to his docker customers one morning. ‘I’ve a good mind ter chuck the bleedin’ lot in. I sweat ’ere fer nine hours every day, an’ fer what? What’s me fanks? I gotta listen ter you lot moanin’ about the bleedin’ tea an’ the state o’ the corned beef. I mean ter say, what d’yer expect fer tuppence?’

The customers grinned at Sam’s tantrum and one young docker flapped a limp wrist and shook his head. ‘Never mind, Sam, give us a kiss an’ ferget yer troubles,’ he joked.