The Girl from Cotton Lane (43 page)

Florrie nodded in agreement. It was common knowledge amongst the people of Page Street that George Galloway had decided to move all his lorries to the Wilson Street depot which had been enlarged. The new owner of the yard was going to be a rag-sorter and the news had upset everyone in the turning.

‘I thought it was bad enough wiv the stench an’ fumes o’ that petrol but now we’re gonna be plagued wiv rats an’ mice, mark my words,’ Florrie said disgustedly. ‘I remember that rag sorter’s in Bermondsey Lane. Yer used ter see the rats runnin’ across the road like a bleedin’ army. One of ’em run in ole Mrs Coffey’s passage one night an’ got in ’er bedroom. Up under the springs of ’er bed it went. ’Er ole man was scared out of ’is life but ole Elsie Coffey wasn’t. She killed it wiv a yard broom.’

‘Good Gawd,’ Maisie exclaimed. ‘I ’ope we’re not gonna ’ave the same trouble round ’ere. My ole man can’t stan’ rats eivver.’

The winkle stall had opened at the end of the turning and Florrie went inside her house to get her purse. ‘C’mon, Mais, let’s walk up the top,’ she suggested. ‘I’ve gotta get me tea, an’ I fancy a nice milk stout.’

The two women strolled down to Arnold’s seafood stall, where Florrie bought her usual half pint of winkles, then they sauntered into the Kings Arms, observed by Alice Johnson, who had been peering through her lace curtains for the past half hour, worrying in case it was her the two ladies were talking about.

Nellie Tanner sat with William in their drab flat in Bacon Buildings discussing the coming move. ‘If it all goes frew I don’t want yer gettin’ too involved wiv the ’orses, Will,’ she told him. ‘Yer not a young man any more an’ besides, yer done enough. Carrie wouldn’t expect yer ter do anyfing anyway. She’d be grateful fer yer advice.’

‘All right, Muvver, don’t go on so,’ William urged her. ‘Anybody’d fink I was a dodderin’ ole fool to ’ear yer talk. I can still get about, fank Gawd, an’ I’ve still got me faculties. I’ll be able ter look the ’orses over an’ make sure they don’t get ill-treated by any o’ the carmen. Some o’ the bleeders don’t value their ’orses. I’ve always said an ’orse’ll work till it drops, so yer gotta make sure they get their food an’ water. It’s very important, yer see.’

Nellie puffed loudly. ‘Yeah, all right, Will. I know what ’as ter be done, yer bin tellin’ me that fer the past thirty-odd years.’

William smiled at his wife. She was now in her sixty-second year and still a striking woman, he thought. Her hair was streaked with grey but her body was trim and upright. Her eyes were still bright too, he often noted, and she had lost none of her fiery nature. Things had been hard for her. Losing their son James in the war and then Charlie going off to India had been very sad occasions for both of them but Nellie seemed to have grieved longer than he. He knew that the memories of both the lads would always remain with him until his dying day, but Nellie seemed never to have quite come to terms with the double loss. It was as if Charlie had died too, William felt. He had never returned since he left early in 1919. All they had to remember him by was the bundle of letters from India which Nellie kept in a cardboard box under the bed. They were happy letters in the main. Charlie was now a regimental sergeant-major in the Indian Army and had married an Assam tea-planter’s daughter. They had two sons, William who was now seven years old and named after his grandfather, and Lawrence who was five. Often he had gone into the bedroom and seen Nellie reading through the letters, tears falling down her cheeks. It was the same when a new letter arrived every six months or so. She would read it through over and over again and then say that she lived in hope of seeing her Charlie and his family before she died. William hoped so too, but he thought that it would be a few more years before Charlie retired from the army, and he wondered with a sinking feeling whether seeing him again might not be like meeting a stranger.

‘D’yer fink she’ll make a go of it, Will?’ Nellie asked, interrupting his thoughts.

‘’Course she will,’ he replied, puffing on his pipe. ‘Our Carrie’s got a good start. Those ’orses of Buckman’s are well looked after. ’E was always strict about the way ’is carmen ’andled ’em. There’s four teams an’ they’ve all got a few years’ work left in ’em yet. Besides, yer know our Carrie. She won’t tolerate no nonsense wiv the carmen. They’ll get a fair deal an’ be lucky they’re workin’ fer ’er an’ not that ole goat Galloway.’

‘Yer right, Will,’ Nellie concurred. ‘We should fink ourselves lucky we’re gettin’ out o’ this bloody ’ovel. She always said she’d get us out one day an’ she’s done it.’

‘Not yet she ain’t,’ William reminded her. ‘There’s a lot ter do yet. She’s got ter make sure the bank loan’s all right, then there’s the cafe ter be sold. I wouldn’t count yer chickens just yet. Fings could go wrong.’

‘Nuffink’s gonna go wrong,’ Nellie said firmly. ‘Carrie won’t let nuffink stand in ’er way now.’

William tapped his pipe on the edge of the grate and reached for his tobacco pouch. ‘I bin finkin’ about young Joe Maitland,’ he said suddenly. ‘Carrie told me ’e’s bin shifted ter Dartmoor.’

‘’Ow did Carrie come ter find that out?’ Nellie asked him.

‘’E wrote ’er a letter by all accounts,’ William replied.

‘’Ow comes ’e wrote ter Carrie?’ Nellie asked, looking puzzled.

‘Well, they was friends,’ William said, averting his eyes. ‘Carrie used ter buy stuff at the ware’ouse, remember?’

‘So did a lot o’ people,’ Nellie retorted.

‘Well, p’raps Joe wrote ter them as well,’ William said offhandedly.

‘Yer don’t fink there’s bin anyfing goin’ on between ’em, do yer, Will?’ Nellie asked.

‘I dunno. Joe always liked our Carrie, an’ she seemed ter like ’im too. She’s bin ter the ware’ouse a few times an’ they was always laughin’ an’ jokin’ tergevver. It was nice ter see. Carrie ain’t ’ad much of a life wiv Fred. I know ’e’s a good man an’ ’e’s good to ’er an’ young Rachel, but they never seemed to ’ave much fun tergevver. Now she’s got that business ter run on ’er own. Poor ole Fred’s gettin’ worse by all accounts.’

‘I ’ope there’s nuffink goin’ on, Will. When yer take the vows it’s fer better or worse, sickness an’ ’ealth,’ Nellie reminded him. ‘I wouldn’t like ter see ’er playin’ around wiv ovver fellers.’

‘Well, it’s ’er life, Muvver. We can’t interfere,’ William replied. ‘As long as she knows what she’s doin’.’

‘Shall we take all this furniture wiv us?’ Nellie asked, deliberately changing the subject.

‘What furniture?’ William laughed. ‘The bloody lot’s only fit fer the bonfire. I reckon we should try an’ get ’old of a couple o’ sticks o’ new stuff an’ leave this lot ’ere.’

‘At our time o’ life?’ Nellie said. ‘These bits an’ pieces ’ave bin wiv us since we tied the knot. I ain’t leavin’ ’em an’ that’s final.’

‘All right, Muvver,’ William replied, smiling fondly at her. ‘Anyway, I’m orf ter the Kings Arms. Comin’?’

On Friday evening Florrie Axford, Maisie Dougall, Sadie Sullivan, Alice Johnson and Nellie Tanner set off for the school in Fair Street accompanied by Maudie Mycroft and Maggie Jones, who was now in her eightieth year. Maggie slowed them down, as she had to stop frequently to rest her bad leg, and when they arrived the meeting had already started.

‘Get some chairs fer the ladies,’ the speaker bawled out to the school porter who was standing at the rear of the hall.

Maisie turned to Florrie. ‘That’s Red Ellie,’ she whispered.

Maudie looked around the walls and saw the posters of women carrying picks and shovels, and uniformed men marching in long columns. She pulled a face. ‘I stopped my Ernest goin’ ter these sort o’ meetin’s,’ she muttered to Nellie.

Florrie overheard her. ‘That was down ter the carrots,’ she said, grinning at Sadie.

Red Ellie was on her feet. ‘The world’s workers are bein’ exploited,’ she shouted out to her subdued audience. ‘While we get crusts o’ stale bread the bourgeoisie lap up the cream. Fings are never gonna alter until the workers rise up an’ shake off their shackles o’ servitude. Arise one an’ all! Down wiv the capitalists!’

‘This is a bit much,’ Florrie remarked to Sadie. ‘We ain’t seekin’ ter change the world, only our ’ouses.’

Nellie yawned. ‘I knew I shouldn’t ’ave come,’ she said to Maisie. ‘I can’t keep me eyes open.’

Another speaker was on his feet. ‘The workers of the world have seen the light. Beacons are burning around this globe of ours,’ he ranted. ‘Now the capitalists of the world are on the retreat everywhere. Long live the revolution!’

His outpourings were greeted with silence and Florrie turned to Maisie. ‘That’s the last time I let yer talk me inter goin’ anywhere,’ she grumbled, climbing to her feet.

Maisie followed her example and the rest of the women got up as well. Nellie was just slipping off to sleep. She jerked awake as Sadie nudged her.

‘C’mon, luv. This is a bloody loony ’atch,’ she remarked loudly.

The women of Page Street walked out of the hall and gathered at the head of the stairs.

‘I reckon we should ’ave gone ter the Kings Arms instead,’ Florrie said, giving Maisie a wicked look.

Just then Red Ellie stepped out of the hall on to the landing. ‘What’s upset you, ladies?’ she asked in a formidable voice.

‘Why, that bloody nonsense,’ Florrie retorted, unflustered. ‘We come ’ere fer a bit o’ ’elp wiv our ’ouses an’ instead we’ve ’ad ter listen ter that load o’ twaddle.’

Ellie stared at her for a few moments, then an indulgent smile appeared on her face. ‘I know we sometimes get carried away,’ she said magnanimously, ‘but there’s a lot o’ sense in the argument if yer really fink about it.’

‘That’s as it may be,’ Florrie answered, ‘but yer can’t expect
us
ter rise up an’ change the world. Jus’ look at us. There ain’t one of us fit enough ter walk fer more than a few yards wivout puffin’ an’ blowin’, let alone carry a bleedin’ banner on a march. Poor ole Maggie’s eighty, an’ I’m plagued wiv corns. Then there’s Maisie. She ain’t bin right fer ages wiv ’er back.’

Red Ellie nodded sympathetically. ‘Right, ladies, yer made yer point. Now ’ow can the Party ’elp yer?’

‘It’s our ’ouses, yer see,’ Florrie began.

Billy Sullivan sat in his cosy parlour facing Annie who was breast-feeding Connie Elizabeth. He was beaming. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘When I saw that letter from the prison I didn’t know what ter fink.’

Annie smiled at him and moved the baby up over her shoulder, gently patting its back. ‘I think it’s wonderful,’ she said quietly.

‘I feel like it’s me birfday an’ Christmas all rolled inter one, Annie.’

‘Well, don’t get too carried away, Billy,’ she told him. ‘It’s a beginning, but there’s a lot to do, and you have to get backing.’

‘Farvver Murphy said ’e’d always be willin’ to ’elp. Then there’s the lads around ’ere. I’m sure they’ll muck in if they can see fings movin’. It’ll work out, I know it will.’

Annie put the baby to her other breast and settled down, her gaze full of happiness as she saw the excitement in Billy’s deep blue eyes. ‘Just be patient,’ she warned him. ‘I know it’s what you’ve always dreamed about and I’ve prayed to God for it to come true, really I have, but you must be careful. Don’t do anything silly. You know what I mean.’

Billy got up from his chair and bent over Annie, kissing her on her forehead. ‘D’yer know, I’m the ’appiest man in the world right now. I’ve got a job, an’ a new baby an’ now this,’ he said, sighing contentedly.

‘Is there nothing else that made you so happy, Billy?’ she asked him.

He shook his head, watching her closely, and as her face dropped he grinned widely. ‘Of course there is. Bein’ married ter you is the best fing that could ’ave ’appened ter me. Yer’ve given me lovely kids an’ more love than I ever felt was possible. I do love yer, Annie,’ he said earnestly, lowering his lips to meet hers.

Annie pushed him away playfully. ‘There’s a time and place for everything. Right now I’m trying to feed your daughter. Do you want the milk to curdle?’

Billy walked over to the door and took down his coat. ‘I won’t be late, Annie,’ he told her. ‘I’m gonna tell Danny the good news.’

‘Don’t get drunk tonight, Billy,’ she said quietly.

‘I promise,’ he told her, making a criss-cross movement over his heart with a forefinger.

In the gloomy house in Tyburn Square George Galloway sat with his son in the gaslit front room. The curtains were pulled against the night and the room smelt of stale tobacco smoke. George was slumped in his chair looking all of his seventy-four years, his face lined and his hair now completely white. His eyes were rheumy and heavy-lidded, but his mind was as alert as ever.