The Girl from Cotton Lane (45 page)

‘All right, Maudie, I’ll keep me mouth shut,’ he promised her. ‘But don’t ferget ter show ’er the bedroom. If nuffink’s done about that ceilin’ pretty soon there’ll be a tragedy in Page Street.’

Red Ellie saw all the signs of wilful neglect and decay, and when she had finished going round the dilapidated dwellings she sat down with the women in Sadie Sullivan’s parlour and set out a course of action.

‘Now look, ladies,’ she began, ‘first fings first. I’ll draw up a list of repairs needed an’ a demand that they be carried out wivout fail. I want yer all ter sign it, an’ then I’ll go over ter see Galloway wiv two of yer as representatives of the Page Street Women’s Committee. Then, if the repairs are not carried out by the set time, we’ll take further action.’

‘It won’t mean violence, will it?’ Maudie asked fearfully.

‘It might come to violence, my dear,’ Ellie replied. ‘Sometimes there’s no alternative.’

Maudie was feeling decidedly uneasy. ‘I couldn’t bear gettin’ involved in violence,’ she told the meeting.

‘Yer’d be involved in violence if that bleedin’ ceilin’ o’ yours fell down on yer,’ Florrie told her. ‘Yer’d ’ave a bloody violent ’eadache.’

Red Ellie sipped her tea and studied the women closely. She had learned their names and was making mental appraisals. Sadie was a tough woman, she decided. Florrie too. They could both be relied upon to lead the campaign. Maisie was less of a leader but very enthusiastic. Maggie appeared to be half-hearted, but Maudie seemed to be afraid of her own shadow. That one was the weak link and would have to be coaxed along.

‘Would one of yer like ter sit down wiv me an’ ’elp get the demands sorted out?’ Ellie asked. ‘What about you, Maudie?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ Maudie replied, bringing her hand up to her mouth.

‘Well, one of yer should be involved,’ Ellie told them.

Florrie was secretly revelling in Maudie’s discomfort. ‘Why don’t yer, Maudie?’ she prompted. ‘Yer’d be pretty good at that sort o’ fing. After all, yer get involved wiv loads o’ different fings at the muvvers’ meetin’.’

The nervous woman looked around at the smiling faces of her friends and felt a little confused, for it was not often that they complimented her on anything.

‘Well, I s’pose I could ’elp,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Nobody would ’ave ter know it was me though, would they? Outside o’ this meetin’, I mean.’

‘Don’t worry, gel,’ Florrie reassured her. ‘We won’t tell a soul. We don’t wanna see yer get victimised fer us.’

Maudie wished she had bit on her tongue. If this ever got out she’d be thrown out on the street, she was sure she would. What would Ernest say, after all the nagging she had done to make him resign from the Communist Party?

The women were leaving now and Florrie turned to Maudie in the doorway. ‘Good luck, gel, an’ don’t worry, we’re right be’ind yer,’ she said, hiding a smile.

That’s just what I’m worried about, Maudie thought.

Carrie had soon settled into the new routine. She realised that she would have to try for new contracts right away if the business was to get on a good footing, and to that end she telephoned around the local factories and sent out a tariff of charges worked out from the previous owner’s records and books. She was fired by the challenge to make the enterprise work. Fred was of little help in his present condition and she realised that it was up to her alone to establish her name in the competitive cartage business. Being a woman was not to her advantage, she knew, but she was determined that before very much time had passed the name Bradley would stand for something with the companies in the area.

With all that had been taking place recently Carrie had had little time to dwell on thoughts of Joe Maitland, but as the months slowly slipped by she thought about his coming release and how it would affect her life. She knew that she had to see him again. It had been three years now since he had been transferred to Dartmoor and there had been no opportunity to see him there. In fact she had only managed to visit him before on two occasions, and seeing him looking so pale and drawn had made her feel depressed for days afterwards. Nevertheless Joe seemed to be taking his incarceration very well, considering, and his regular letters were cheerful. There was little in them of an intimate nature and Carrie had realised early on that he was deliberately avoiding upsetting her. It had been impossible not to get upset, however, and Carrie tried to console herself by looking forward to his release when she would let him see how much he meant to her.

Fred suddenly took a turn for the worse. He had been poorly during the first few weeks in the new house and one night as he was getting into bed he suddenly collapsed and fell on to his back, his face contorted. Carrie felt sick with fear and guilt and her shout of distress brought young Rachel hurrying into the room. ‘Is Daddy gonna die, Mum?’ she cried, tears soaking her pretty face.

‘’Elp me get ’im on the bed,’ Carrie said quickly, taking him by the shoulders.

Between the two of them they managed to settle Fred on the bed and then Carrie rushed to telephone the doctor. The elderly Doctor Kelly seemed unsteady on his feet when he called and Carrie could smell whisky on his breath, but he quickly realised how serious the situation was. After he had carried out a full examination he slipped his stethoscope into his black bag and motioned Carrie out of the room with him.

‘The man’s very sick,’ he said in his usual brusque tone. ‘I think we should get him admitted to hospital right away. If I’m not mistaken he could be due for another stroke.’

Towards the end of May George Galloway was informed by his solicitor that the planning committee would sit the following week and it would be an open meeting. Joe Maitland had earlier received details of the date and time of the meeting, with notification that objections to the proposed building of a gymnasium would be raised. He immediately wrote to Billy Sullivan who informed Father Murphy, and following a frantic flurry of preparations the session at Bermondsey Borough Council took place.

The meeting started promptly at eight o’clock in the evening and it was well attended by interested parties and merely curious members of the public. It was held in a large, oak-panelled committee room and for the first hour various other items on the agenda were discussed. The room became filled with smoke as the chairman puffed importantly on his large cigar. The announcing of item number ten on the agenda caused a ripple of murmuring throughout the room and the chairman called for order.

‘We have an application before us concerning the land adjacent to Smithson’s warehouse in Wilson Street, Dockhead. It’s for permission to erect a gymnasium on the site,’ he opened.

‘I understand from the information provided that the land was designated for industrial use,’ Councillor Edith Squires remarked, looking up over her gold-rimmed spectacles.

‘That is so,’ replied the chairman.

‘Was the land bought for industrial use originally?’ Councillor George Smith asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Does the application refer to the site as being industrial land?’ Councillor Thompson interjected.

‘Yes.’

‘Hence the application,’ Councillor Squires remarked with a smug grin.

The chairman puffed on his cigar and sent a jet of smoke ceilingward. ‘I have an objection on the table. It’s from Messrs George Galloway and Sons, Cartage Contractors of Wilson Street, Dockhead. Have we a representative present to speak on their behalf?’

A tall, thin man in thick spectacles stood up and raised his hand. ‘Yes. I’m Bernard Duffin of Duffin and Skellen. I’m empowered to speak on behalf of Galloway and Sons,’ he said in a reedy voice.

‘Go ahead, Mr Duffin,’ the chairman said, studying the ash on his cigar.

‘The main objection of my client is one of limitation through deceit,’ the solicitor began. ‘Limitation of scarce industrial sites in the borough, in this case aggravated by deception.’

‘Would you be more precise, Mr Duffin,’ the chairman said impatiently.

Duffin coughed nervously and adjusted his spectacles. ‘My client contends that the present owner of the site, a Mr Joseph Maitland, obtained the site with the intention of leasing it off for the development of a boxing gymnasium knowing full well that the land was designated for industrial use only. Further, my client contends that the application should be refused due to the fact that he had already put in a bid for the land to develop his transport business.’

Heads nodded in sympathy and one councillor was heard to remark that business rates were higher than private rates anyway.

‘Is there anyone present to represent the applicant?’ the chairman asked, brushing the cigar ash off the arm of his blue serge suit.

A rotund man stood up and waved to the chairman. ‘My name is Theodore Winkless of Benchley and Company,’ he began. ‘My client is unable to attend in person as he is at present a guest in one of His Majesty’s prisons. He wished me to point this fact out before someone else did.’

There was another outbreak of murmuring around the room and Councillor Squires was heard to click her tongue noisily.

‘My client wishes it to be made clear that he did not set out to deceive,’ Winkless went on. ‘The land was originally purchased for the express purpose of adding floor space to his expanding business but another, more suitable site was then found. Mr Maitland subsequently intended to dispose of the site, but then decided to lease it off at a greatly reduced rent for the benefit of the local youth whose welfare he is greatly concerned about.’

Councillor Edith Squires was seen to roll her eyes and jerk her head in disgust, and Councillor Smith turned to Councillor Thompson and pulled a face. It was then that Councillor Bernard Streetley got up and raised his hands in a theatrical manner.

‘Do we have to prolong this charade indefinitely, members of the committee?’ he said in a lofty tone. ‘We have here a site owner who has the temerity to waste the time of this committee with an application of gross effrontery. Industrial land, may I point out, is land for the nurturing and development of industry, and our industriousness is something of which we in this ancient borough can be justly proud. No, gentlemen and good lady, the answer must be no.’

Councillor Squires led the applause and Councillor Streetley sat down smiling smugly.

‘Are there any other points of view before we take the vote?’ the chairman asked.

Someone shouted from the public section at the back of the hall, but all eyes were on the ageing priest who had risen to his feet and held up his hand to the chairman.

‘I wish to say something,’ he said quietly.

‘Feel free, Father,’ the chairman said in a smooth voice.

Father Murphy cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been the parish priest in this riverside community of ours for more years than I care to remember,’ he began in a measured voice. ‘I’ve seen some of you toddling into my church and I’ve watched you grow into upright, Godfearing members of the populace. I’ve seen the young men go off to war and I’ve comforted my flock when their sons fell in battle. I’ve watched the survivors come home, some wearing their medals for valour proudly, but by far the majority broken in body and spirit. Not so many years ago, it seems to an old man like me, I had the sad task of comforting the Sullivan family.

‘Now Mr and Mrs Sullivan gave four of their seven sons to the war. Two fell in battle and two came home, one of them broken in body but not in spirit. Billy Sullivan was the eldest of the seven boys and he took a bullet through his chest during the heavy fighting on the Somme. It was particularly cruel for the young man because he was at the time a leading contender for the middleweight boxing championship of Great Britain. Tragically, Billy was forced to spend the next few years sitting at his front door, when weather permitted, doubled up like an old man. But I’m pleased to tell this committee, and I do beg your indulgence for a few minutes more, that Billy Sullivan has now recovered from his wounds although he will never fight in the ring again, and has now married a young woman whom many of you knew as Sister McCafferty, the local welfare nurse. The Sullivans have three children, and I might add that I baptised them all.

‘Billy Sullivan still nurtures his dream, and he nurtured that dream all through the long weeks and months when he sat doubled in two on his rickety chair in Page Street. He hoped more than anything that one day he would be able to open a boxing gymnasium for the benefit of the youth in this riverside parish of ours. That dream is still strong in Billy Sullivan’s heart, and he was overjoyed when another of our young men, who unfortunately has fallen by the wayside, decided to atone for his sins by donating a valuable piece of land that he owned so that Billy’s gymnasium could be built. Billy came to see me a short time ago with his heart bursting with happiness. I told the young man I would help him fulfil his dream and I will, if you, ladies and gentlemen of this committee, vote for Billy.

‘I thank you for your patience in listening to my plea, and I would like to say just a little more before I resume my place. Industrial land is very scarce in this borough, I agree, but so are facilities for our young people. Industrial development is all very well but it counts for nothing without the quality and endeavour of our future adults who will work the lathes, drive the transport and toil on our waterfront and in our factories. We owe it to them to provide them with leisure facilities which will strengthen and embolden their hearts and enrich their spirits. We owe it to the youth, countless thousands of whom went out to fight for this country and laid down their lives for us. A vote for the gymnasium is a vote for Billy, a vote for all the youth of our borough, and a vote for Jesus Christ.’