The Girl from Cotton Lane (49 page)

‘Right then,’ Billy said, spitting on his hands. ‘We work in three teams. We’ve gotta pack the bricks in piles around the site so as ter make it easier fer the bricklayers. No chucking the bricks, they’ve got ter be stacked neatly. Right, when yer ready.’

Tubby and Wally started off carrying eight bricks at a time as they ran from the lorry to place the first of them at the far end of the concrete base, and soon they were gasping for breath. Billy and Danny worked at a steady pace each carrying six bricks, and soon their twin piles had grown. The other two volunteers had clambered on to the lorry and were placing the bricks ready for the two teams. The cold afternoon was forgotten as sweat soaked the competitors’ faces and necks, and by the time two equal stacks had been completed the four men were panting hard. Tubby was finding it difficult to keep up with the much stronger and fitter Wally and he was being subjected to a string of abuse by his friend, who could see the chance of a free pint and the acclaim that would go with it disappearing. The driver was beginning to feel that the volunteers had been recruited from the local lunatic asylum but he was pleased that the load was disappearing quickly off his vehicle.

Danny was feeling the strain on his arms and Billy was fighting for his breath but they were outstripping Wally and Tubby. Their second stack of bricks was almost completed and they had taken a clear lead. Tubby had by now come to the end of his tether. He slumped down on the kerbside and fought for his breath, unable to rise despite Wally’s coaxing. He watched as his friend ran back and forth across the wide concrete base carrying the bricks, his face red with exertion and his breath coming in gasps. Suddenly Billy dropped the bricks he was carrying and held up his hands to their lone opponent. ‘Wally, I gotta ’and it ter yer,’ he said, rubbing his sore and bleeding palms. ‘Yer’d kill yerself before yer gave up the chance of a free pint. Well, as far as I’m concerned yer’ve earned it. Now let’s take it easy. What d’yer say?’

Wally spat on his sore hands and rubbed them together, then with a huge grin he held out his hand to the young Sullivan. Danny meanwhile had slumped down on the kerbside next to Tubby. ‘C’mon, mate, on yer feet,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the rest o’ the load off the lorry an’ we’ll go fer a pint.’

One hour later six tired and aching volunteers walked wearily to the Kings Arms and slumped down over the bar counter. Without asking for the orders Alec Crossley pulled on the beer pump and filled six pint glasses with his best ale, placing them down in front of the exhausted men. Billy reached into his pocket but Alec waved the money away. ‘It’s all right, lad,’ he said cheerily. ‘Farvver Murphy’s bin in. The drinks are on ’im.’

George Galloway leaned forward in his office chair and rested the palms of his hands on the silver handle of his cane walking stick. His face was furious and his eyes bulged as he glared at his son.

‘Yer could ’ave told me,’ he raged. ‘First fing I ’eard on Sunday mornin’ was that rabble passin’ under me winder. Ole Jackley ’ad ter call the police. Then I come in ’ere an’ see bloody great posters stuck on the walls outside.’

Frank was equally irate. ‘I had a protest group camp under my window!’ he shouted. ‘They were carrying banners saying “Down with slum landlords”. How do you think I felt?’

‘Well, why didn’t yer try ter talk ter the Bolshie mares?’ George growled. ‘Yer could ’ave stopped it if yer’d called the police. They ’ad no right ter come in this yard wiv their petition.’

‘Well, I don’t know what you propose to do about it, but unless something’s done we’re going to be plagued with them,’ Frank replied, pacing the office.

The first of the lorries drove in and Frank Galloway looked through the office window. ‘Good God! Look at that!’ he exclaimed.

The older man got up and walked to the window, then he banged his walking stick down with temper. ‘Get the driver ter wash that orf!’ he raved.

The driver had jumped down from his cab and was crossing the yard. His hair was matted and there was a gluey mess down the front of his boiler suit. ‘I’ve never seen anyfing like it, Mr Galloway,’ he said agitatedly. ‘There was I parked outside Mark Brown’s Wharf when I spotted this crowd o’ lunatics. One of ’em started ter paste the side o’ the lorry while I was sittin’ there. Well, I went ter jump down, but I couldn’t open the door. The gits ’ad tied the door ’andles tergevver. I see this big woman pastin’ that poster on the side an’ I shouted out, an’ she give me a load of abuse a docker wouldn’t use. All I could do was try ter get through the winder but as I lowered it she chucked the pail o’ gum all over me. I’ll never get this out o’ me ’air.’

Frank Galloway shook his head slowly. ‘All right, Tom, scrape that poster off then get off home,’ he said. ‘I’d better phone the police.’

George Galloway was searching through his desk drawer when Frank walked back into the office. ‘Where’s that bloody repair book got to?’ he moaned.

Frank sat down and sighed loudly. ‘I’ve been through the list of repairs needed. Ten ceilings, four sinks, two coppers, and God knows how many roof slates. It’ll cost a small fortune.’

‘Not if I find that bloody book,’ George Galloway scowled.

‘What do you need that for?’ Frank asked irritably.

‘’Cos it’s got Alf Comber’s address in it,’ George replied. ‘I got ’im ter do the last lot o’ repairs. ’E’s a bit of a bodger but ’e’s the cheapest by far.’

The younger Galloway shook his head in despair. ‘You’re not getting that drunken old sot to do those repairs, are you?’ he asked, staring at his father. ‘I remember the last time you got him in. We had the tenants over complaining that he’d caused more damage than he’d repaired. If you’re going to spend money on those Page Street houses why don’t you get a reputable firm in? If the work’s done properly we can put a couple of shillings on the rent.’

George had found the repair book and was flipping through the pages. ‘’Ere we are. Forty-five Eagle Street,’ he said suddenly, ignoring Frank’s argument. ‘I’ll call roun’ ter see ’im soon as I can. In the meantime, Frank, you go roun’ an’ see that ole witch Axford. Tell ’er I’m gettin’ the repair man in, but only when ’er Bolshie friends stop their bloody caper. Don’t take no ole lip orf ’er neivver. Put the fear o’ Gawd inter the ole cow if she starts. Tell ’er she can be evicted fer causin’ trouble.’

Frank Galloway gave his father a wicked look. It’s about time he retired, he thought. Every time the silly old fool comes into the yard he causes disruption. Now he wants me to tidy up his dirty work. I don’t know why he doesn’t call round to the tenants himself.

George was staring thoughtfully at the papers on his desk, his fingers caressing the gold medallion hanging from the chain on his waistcoat, then suddenly he took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. ‘It’s early yet. Why don’t yer pop roun’ an’ see that Axford woman right now?’ he said.

Frank got up from his chair just as the phone rang. He picked up the receiver. George watched his son’s reaction as he tried to get a word in. It was obvious that the caller was angry.

‘Yes, yes, all right. I’ll take care of it. Yes, of course. Leave it to me, and thank you. Goodbye, Mr Blackmore,’ Frank said angrily.

‘What’s wrong?’ George asked.

‘That was Brockway’s,’ Frank replied, slumping down in his chair. ‘Our lorry’s unloading there, and the managing director’s walked in and created merry hell. There are posters stuck all over the vehicle. He’s threatened to cancel the contract if we send another lorry there in that state.’

George banged his fist down on the desk. ‘Get round an’ see Axford right away,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll go an’ see Peter Brockway meself.’

After Frank had left, the elder Galloway reached into the drawer and took out a bottle of Scotch. Once fortified, he walked out to his trap which was standing just inside the gate. He climbed into the contraption and picked up the reins, pulling on them to force the pony around towards the entrance, and as the trap drew out of the yard into the street the poster could be seen clearly on the rear of the coachwork: ‘Down with Slum Landlords’.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

1932 dawned with little prospect of work for the many folk in the riverside borough who had been made redundant before Christmas. Many more were on short time as the factories’ orders fell and money became scarce. The river trade was experiencing its worst spell for many years and hungry workers hung about the streets or travelled to other boroughs seeking work. Carrie Bradley, however, had been fortunate in winning another contract, and it was one which gave her much satisfaction. Brockway Leather Factors had decided that the cartage rates they were paying to the Galloway firm were too high, considering that on two occasions the vehicles supplied to them appeared to be advertising for the British Communist Party. Most of Brockway’s output was destined for the local railway freight depots and the management felt that it would be prudent to hire the less expensive horse transport. With dropping orders for their goods and the prospects for any improvement looking very grim, the firm of leather factors decided to cut their costs and obtain the services of Bradleys’ Cartage Contractors, whose hire rates were very reasonable.

Carrie now had four regular contracts and frequent daily hire work in the borough, much of the latter needed by various firms whenever trade picked up and orders trickled in. The extra work meant that Carrie had to hire casual labour when required and she also took on another regular carman, Lofty Bamford. He was one of Galloway’s old casuals and William knew him well. He had told his daughter that the man was an experienced carman and reliable. Carrie was gratified to see that the business was holding its own in the first year, considering the way things were. She had already thought about the possibility of buying a lorry in the not too distant future and trying for some of the more lucrative contracts, but she refrained from talking to her father about her plans for the time being.

Life became a little complicated in the Tanner household as the year progressed. Joe Maitland stayed on at the house as a lodger and his being there caused some friction between William and Nellie Tanner, who was not afraid to make her point.

‘It’s not right, Will,’ she said. ‘I know Carrie’s a widow an’ she’s got nobody to answer to, but people will talk.’

‘Sod the people,’ was William’s abrupt reply.

Nellie had known from the first day of his arrival that Joe Maitland and her daughter were more than just friends. ‘It mus’ be obvious to everyone whenever they’re tergevver,’ she remarked. ‘I saw Carrie wiv ’im when I come in wiv the shoppin’ the ovver mornin’ an’ ’e ’ad ’is arm round ’er.’

‘So what?’ William replied.

‘’Ow long ’as it bin goin’ on? That’s what worries me,’ Nellie said.

‘Look, Nellie, our Carrie’s not ’ad an easy time,’ William reminded her. ‘I know Fred was a good man an’ ’e would ’ave given ’er the top brick orf the chimney but ’e was a good bit older than ’er an’ not the sort o’ bloke who liked ter take ’er out an’ about. I don’t fink they ever went ter the music ’all more than a couple o’ times, nor the pictures. All it seemed ter be fer ’er was drudgery.’

Nellie would not be swayed. ‘Fred was ’er ’usband, Will,’ she said firmly. ‘If Carrie an’ Joe were carryin’ on while ’e was alive then she was wrong, an’ yer won’t make me see it any ovver way.’

‘Well, as far as I’m concerned she ain’t done no wrong,’ William persisted. ‘I’m sure she thought a lot o’ Fred but I fink she married ’im mainly so she could ’ave the chance o’ lookin’ after us, an’ that’s what the gel’s done.’

Nellie was staring into the fire, pinching her lip. ‘We’ve bin over this time an’ time again,’ she said irritably. ‘I know she worries about us but I fink she married Fred fer security. After all, most o’ the gels round ’ere of ’er age were already married.’

‘Well, whatever the reason was, she wasn’t ’ead over ’eels in love wiv ’im,’ William remarked. ‘I fink it was on the cards that one day some young man would come along.’

Joe had taken Carrie’s breath away, and for the first few weeks after his release from prison when he was staying at the house life for her was idyllic. He helped her with the books and busied himself about the stables, repaired broken planking, re-hung stable doors and generally made himself useful. They spent their evenings together taking long walks along the riverside, or sometimes they would catch a tram to Greenwich or the Embankment where they would get off and stroll leisurely through the brightly lit streets. At night Carrie lay awake, awaiting him, and when the house was quiet he would come to her bed and make gentle and passionate love to her.

Joe had quickly become a favourite of Rachel’s and he spent time talking with her and taking her for walks along the river or to the park while Carrie was busy. Rachel took to calling him Joebo, clinging to him like a limpet, and Carrie felt very happy for her daughter. Fred had adored her but he had never seemed to have enough time to spend with her and he had tended to lecture her during their spare moments together. Rachel had loved him too but she had never been able to confide in him the way she felt she could with Joe. He made her laugh and chased away her fears and anxieties, and she grew to love him.

Gradually, as the weeks passed, Carrie began to sense a change in Joe, although at first it was hardly noticeable. He started to become edgy and began to make the odd trip to Stepney, telling her that he wanted to set up a business which this time would be perfectly legal. He would speak about various ideas he had, and then relapse into a period of moodiness. His interest in her as a desirable woman was still as strong, however, and Carrie felt that, whatever thoughts and worries he harboured during the day, she could make him forget when he came to her room in the quiet of night.