The Girl from Cotton Lane (47 page)

The young clerk nodded and held out his hands to Ellie placatingly. ‘What can I do?’ he implored her.

‘Phone around. Tell Galloway the yard’s on fire or somefink,’ the women’s leader shouted at him. ‘I don’t care what yer say but get ’em round ’ere sharp.’

Jamie sighed as he picked up the telephone, knowing he was going to be for it, and Ellie Roffey marched back into the yard.

‘’E give me a bit of ole lip at first,’ she told the women, ‘but I soon showed ’im the light. ’E’s phonin’ around ter try an’ find ’em. We’ll ’ave ter stay ’ere until one of ’em gets ’ere.’

Maudie looked around the yard, remembering the last time she and the women had been involved in a protest against Galloway in Page Street. ‘I wonder if ’e’s phonin’ fer the police?’ she asked Florrie. ‘We could be locked up fer trespassin’.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Maudie,’ Florrie told her. ‘We’ve come ter see Galloway, not ter trespass. All we wanna do is present the petition.’

‘But surely yer could ’ave give it ter the young man,’ she said to Ellie.

The leader smiled patiently at Maudie. ‘Now look, luv. If that young man takes the petition ’e’ll only pass it on ter Galloway an’ ’e’ll no doubt put it in the bin. Then when we come round again ’e’ll say ’e didn’t get no petition, an’ where’s that leave us?’

‘Up the Swanee wivout a paddle if yer ask me,’ Florrie remarked.

Maggie Jones peered into the office window and turned to Sadie. ‘’E’s on the phone. Poor little sod looks scared ter death,’ she told her.

‘’E’ll be more scared when Galloway comes marchin’ in ’ere,’ Sadie growled. ‘’E’ll most likely tell ’im ’e should ’ave chucked us out the yard.’

‘I don’t s’pose ole Galloway’ll take any notice o’ the petition anyway,’ Maggie remarked.

‘Well, ’e better,’ Sadie said in a loud voice, ‘or somebody’s likely ter start anuvver fire in the Galloway stables.’

Maudie looked at the big woman with fear in her eyes. She had for a long time been of the opinion that Sadie Sullivan was unstable. She had seen her fight like a man when she was younger, and her sons too had been involved in many scuffles, several amongst themselves. Her advancing years had done little to curb the woman’s violent leanings, Maudie thought. They would have to be careful or Sadie was going to get them all locked up.

Suddenly the young man appeared in the office doorway and beckoned Ellie who was talking to Maisie and Maggie. ‘I’ve located Mr Frank Galloway. He’s on his way,’ he said, relieved that the woman’s wrath would now be directed at someone else.

Ellie motioned for the women to gather around. ‘Now, look. It only wants one of us ter do the talkin’. D’yer want me ter speak on your be’alf, or will one of you ladies deal wiv it?’

Florrie shook her head. ‘You’d better do it, luv,’ she told her. ‘A strange face might ’elp. Galloway knows all of us.’

It was nearly one hour later when Frank Galloway walked into the yard with a face like thunder, and when he saw the women gathered together he turned his head and stormed into the office.

Maggie crept up and peered in through the office window. ‘Ole Galloway ain’t ’alf tellin’ that poor lad orf,’ she said, turning to her friends.

Ellie left the group and walked boldly into the office. ‘Mr Galloway?’ she asked loudly.

‘Wait outside,’ Frank said, pointing to the door.

‘Don’t you take that tone wiv me,’ Ellie told him in a threatening voice. ‘I’m not one of yer workers, an’ while yer at it, don’t tell ’im orf. What else could ’e do but get yer round ’ere? We ’ad no intention o’ movin’ till yer showed yer face.’

Frank Galloway nodded to the young clerk, who went back to his books with a red face, then motioned for Ellie to follow him.

‘What is all this about a petition?’ he asked as soon as they were in the inner office.

‘My name is Ellie Roffey an’ I’m a member of the British Communist Party,’ she informed him. ‘I’ve bin asked by the women ter represent ’em in their campaign ter get somefing done about the shockin’ state o’ their ’ouses, ’ouses that are owned by the Galloway company.’

‘So they’ve all gone Bolshie, have they?’ he remarked, grinning scornfully.

‘I’d say they were makin’ a stand against the capitalist exploitation of workers,’ Ellie said coldly. ‘Anyway, I’m not ’ere to argue the toss wiv yer. There’s the petition signed by everybody in Page Street who rents an ’ouse owned by your company. There’s also a list of outstandin’ repairs that need ter be done right away,’ she added, throwing the papers down on the desk in front of him. ‘Now yer can please yerself what yer do about this petition, but I tell yer straight, Mr Galloway, if nuffink’s done ter put fings right yer gonna be sorry.’

‘Oh, I see. Threats, is it?’ he mocked her.

Ellie put her hands on her hips and leaned forward over the desk. ‘Yer got a chance ter put fings right in a civilised manner,’ she said quietly, ‘but if yer don’t, every time you or yer lorries move out o’ this yard yer’ll run a gauntlet. Every time one o’ yer vans parks anywhere fer more than five minutes there’ll be posters stuck all over it. I jus’ wonder what the firms yer contract to are gonna fink when they realise they’re tied up wiv a slum lan’lord. They might even consider changin’ their cartage contractor.’

Frank Galloway had become furious. ‘Get out of this office before I call the police!’ he shouted. ‘I’m not prepared to sit here and listen to wild threats from a Bolshie cow like you. Go on, get out!’

Ellie walked slowly to the door and then turned to face him. ‘I understand yer ole man lives in Tyburn Square,’ she said quietly. ‘Funny fing, we’re ’avin’ a workers’ march on Sunday next. P’raps we could make a little detour. I might even get on to our bruvvers in Ilford. Yer do live in Ilford, don’t yer, Mr Galloway?’

‘Get out!’ he screamed.

‘Don’t ferget ter read the papers I’ve left yer,’ Ellie told him as she walked out of the office, giving the young clerk a big wink as she passed.

‘’Ow d’yer get on?’ the women asked, gathering around her.

‘Well, ’e looked like ’e was gonna ’ave a seizure at first,’ she told them, ‘an’ then I thought ’e really was ’avin’ one, but I fink ’e’s got the message at any rate.’

‘Did ’e threaten ter chuck us all out?’ Maudie asked.

‘If ’e’d ’ave said that I’d ’ave burnt the place down,’ Ellie declared with venom. ‘Now c’mon, gels, let’s march out of ’ere like we’ve won already.’

Billy Sullivan was sitting in the white-painted room staring up at the crucifix above the row of dusty books while Father Murphy finished off the letter. The scratching of the pen was loud in the otherwise silent room and Billy turned his gaze to the shiny pate of the ageing priest.

Suddenly Father Murphy looked up and sighed deeply. ‘Well, that’s taken care of that,’ he said smiling. ‘Now let me see. We’ve got quite a few donations in this week and there’s one in from Councillor Squires’ ladies’ sewing group. There’s five pounds from the T and G branch fund and another five pounds from the police fund. Things are looking good, Billy. We’ll soon be able to get the footings done. We’ll need much more before we can start the actual construction but at least we’re not short of volunteers for the digging. A good foundation, that’s very important.’

Billy nodded. The Kings Arms ’as got a tin box fer a collection an’ my guv’nor’s promised me ’e’ll lend us the picks an’ shovels, provided we replace any that get broke,’ he said helpfully.

Father Murphy rested his elbows on the desk and placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Billy,’ he said, in a tone that made the young man fear what was coming next.

‘Yes, Farvver?’

‘Billy, I’m not altogether sure how to begin, but I s’pose I must ask.’

‘Ask what, Farvver?’

‘Would you consider yourself to be a violent man, Billy?’

‘Certainly not, Farvver.’

‘Have you been to confession lately, Billy?’

‘No, Farvver.’

‘Wally Walburton thinks you should.’

‘What’s it got ter do wiv ’im, Farvver?’

‘Wally’s suffering, Billy.’

‘Did ’e tell yer, Farvver?’

‘Wally Warburton is in no state to say anything at the moment, Billy. His mouth is swollen and he’s lost two teeth.’

Billy fidgeted in his chair. ‘Well, Farvver, it was like this. Wally was cuttin’ up rough in the Kings Arms the ovver night. ’E saw the collection box on the counter an’ ’e started goin’ on about how the idea of a gymnasium was a load o’ cobblers-I mean, rubbish. Anyway I ignored ’im at first. Everybody knows ’ow Wally goes off at times, but when ’e started gettin’ personal an’ sayin’ that my Annie must be mad ter put up wiv me I smacked ’im in the mouth-I mean, I punched ’im.’

Father Murphy hid a grin. ‘We can’t have an upstanding member of our little community going around smacking people in the-I mean, punching people for merely shouting off, and certainly not in front of everyone in the Kings Arms,’ he lectured him.

‘Nobody saw me do it, Farvver, except Wally’s mate, Tubby Abrahms. ’E was ’oldin’ Wally’s coat,’ Billy explained. ‘We was out in the yard, yer see.’

‘Oh, well, that’s different. But you’re still at fault, Billy. You’re not a twenty year old anymore and you’ve a wife and family to consider,’ the old priest reminded him. ‘Turn the other cheek, and try not to rise to the bait in future.’

‘I’ll try,’ Billy replied, ‘unless Wally mentions my Annie again.’

Father Murphy shook his head slowly, feeling that he was wasting his time trying to reform Billy Sullivan. ‘Well, I’ve got a parish meeting to attend so we’d better get back to business,’ he said, picking up a sheaf of papers. ‘Now let’s see about those footings.’

The last of the horse carts had left the Bradleys’ firm in Salmon Lane and Sharkey was busy hosing down the yard. The morning sun was streaming through the office window and Carrie could hear the noise of the traffic outside the gates as it passed back and forth to the factory and the warehouse. She could not put her mind to the task of entering the tonnage and hours worked into the large bound ledger. She sighed deeply and leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her. It had been madness allowing herself to get carried away with Don, she rebuked herself. It had been truly wonderful and he had tried hard afterwards to reassure her that it was the loneliness they both felt which had made it happen, but she could not help feeling terribly guilty that she had not stopped herself before it was too late. They had both been embarrassed afterwards and had spoken no endearments or made no promises to each other. They had lain there on the bed together, her head on Don’s chest with his arms around her, both seeming to sense that it was a very brief interlude in their organised, predictable lives. Don had taken her hands in his and kissed her gently on the cheek before he left, and he had not turned back as he let himself out of the yard.

Carrie looked down at the ledger and closed it. There was much to do, phone calls to make and people to see, but for the moment she could only stare out at the blue sky and the fleecy clouds, wondering what the future would hold for her. Fred was very ill and it was almost certain that he would never get better. Joe was coming home very soon and it was likely that the long period in prison had changed him considerably. He would be bitter, unsure of himself, and probably unable to pick up the threads of his life without a lot of help. Would there be the same feeling between them? she asked herself. Perhaps Joe would decide to start afresh somewhere else, and even if he did not it would be hard to continue with their relationship now that Fred needed her more than ever. Carrie was beset by conflicting thoughts and feelings of guilt and she closed her eyes tightly, trying to shut out all the worries and doubts.

She jumped as the phone rang loudly, and as she reached for the receiver she felt afraid.

The voice at the other end of the line sounded cold and matter-of-fact. ‘Can you come to the hospital right away? Your husband has taken a turn for the worse.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Joe Maitland stared out of the carriage window and watched the bleak countryside flash past. Snow lay on the fields and the distant hills, and up above a January sun hung in the changing sky like a red globe. The other occupants of the carriage stared fixedly ahead, lost in their own thoughts, the two old ladies sitting upright with large black handbags resting on their laps and sucking noisily on mints, and the young, ginger-haired man occasionally crossing and uncrossing his legs. None of them had spoken and Joe felt relieved that he could keep his own counsel, hopefully until the train arrived at Paddington Station.

As the train pulled out of Swindon Station the ticket collector slid back the compartment door and entered, a pair of small clippers held in his hand. The two ladies fumbled in their handbags for their tickets but could not find them, and the young man searched all his trouser pockets and his luggage before producing his from the top pocket of his coat. Joe handed his ticket to the collector and the man rewarded him with a grateful smile. Both the ladies had finally discovered their tickets and they passed them over to the man without looking at him. He left the carriage humming to himself in a deep voice, while the young ginger-haired man recrossed his legs and the ladies resumed their noisy sucking of mints.

Joe cast his eye out of the window again and watched the changing landscape as the train sped towards London. He was dressed in a grey double-breasted suit, once his best but now looking creased, and a pale blue shirt, the top button undone and the collar held close with the small knot of a royal blue tie, which was also creased. Above him on the luggage rack were his belongings, wrapped in a brown paper parcel and tied up with string. The parcel had been noted by the two elderly sisters, who had made the trip to London regularly. They usually engaged the fellow occupants of their carriage in conversation during the tiring journey but they had long since come to know that released prisoners from Dartmoor usually carried such parcels, and they considered it more prudent to suck on their mints and ponder.