The Girl from Cotton Lane (55 page)

Rachel slipped out of the chair and turned to face her mother. ‘D’yer love Joebo?’ she asked, her eyes searching Carrie’s.

‘Yes, I do, Rachel. I love ’im dearly,’ she replied, her voice faltering.

‘I love ’im too, Mum,’ Rachel said, suddenly burying her head in Carrie’s chest.

Chapter Thirty-One

During the bad weather of January Broomhead Smith felt very low. He found it impossible to motivate his old horse and whenever he ventured out on to the streets the nag would clop very gingerly over the icy cobbles and often stop for no apparent reason, leaving Broomhead wondering why he had bothered to harness up the flea-bag in the first place. There was no trade to speak of and the ageing totter came to the conclusion that most of his regular customers had either run out of bits and pieces they wanted to get rid of or were too cold to venture away from their warm hearths. Sitting around in a cosy armchair before a roaring fire was all very well for the likes of them, he thought, but it was no joy for him, not with that nagging bitch he was married to.

Alice seemed to think that it was a piece of cake going out in bad weather and having to shout at the top of his voice to urge everyone to bring out their old lumber. She didn’t know what it was like to sit in that dicky seat half frozen to death arguing with a bloody nag that was getting too lazy to pull the cart when it was empty, let alone when he was lucky enough to get a few scraps of old iron. Alice should have the sense to realise that he wasn’t a young man anymore. Most men of his age had retired and were sitting in front of their fires with the newspaper and a cup of tea whenever they wanted one. The trouble with Alice was, she expected him to get out from under her feet regardless of what it was like outside. She couldn’t see that a man needed to rest at times, he grumbled to himself as he harnessed up the horse. All she was interested in was keeping the place spick and span in case anyone called. Who the bloody hell was going to call in this weather? he asked himself.

It wouldn’t be the vicar, that was for sure. Not after the turnout at the church when he asked to be paid for singing in the choir. Bloody old fool had been taking liberties anyway. Rehearsing twice a week was bad enough, but to suggest that the choir should practise on Saturday afternoons as well was too much. Alice had not been very pleased when he told her that he had decided enough was enough and had put his notice in. In fact she had ranted and raved about the disgrace and how she wouldn’t be able to show her face at the services any more. Silly old cow. It wasn’t as if it was the only church in the neighbourhood.

Broomhead finished harnessing up the horse and after he had filled the nosebag with chaff he took a long look at the cart. It was in need of a coat of paint and the wheels didn’t look all that good, he told himself. Never mind, he would spruce the contraption up when the weather improved. Not much could be done with the nag though. One more season and it would have to be put out to graze. ‘Yer gettin’ past it, old son,’ Broomhead said, tweaking the horse’s ear.

The nag seemed to be in agreement, dourly turning its head and watching as the totter scrambled up into the seat. A flick of the reins did not make any difference and it was only after Broomhead cursed loudly that the animal lackadaisically began to strain on the shaft chains to set the cart in motion.

Broomhead Smith set off for Page Street. It was a cold morning and he huddled down in the dicky seat, his coat collar up around his neck and his battered trilby pulled down around his ears. Alice would be horrified if she knew he still had the trilby, he thought with a grin. She had put it in the dustbin long ago and he had had to retrieve it and hide it away from her. That trilby had seen service for donkeys’ years and he was not going to let her have all her own way.

Broomhead’s destination was the rag sorters, who had taken over the Galloway yard. He had found a buyer for the larger sacks, a bacon curers in Tooley Street. They used the sacking to wrap up their greenbacks before the smoking process began. A bundle earned him a few pennies and it was less of a chore than humping old wringers down flights of stairs, he thought. The only problem was the itching. Twice now he had gone to the yard and loaded a few bundles of the torn sacking which was of no use to the sorters, and each time he had itched terribly. The foreman there said it was his imagination but Broomhead knew differently. It was lice, he was sure of it. They lived in sacking just like they did in the old mattresses he had often carted away. The problem was that he couldn’t use lice powder on the sacking as he had on the bedding. ‘Well, me ole son, beggars can’t be choosers,’ he told his tired horse as he encouraged it to keep moving.

Florrie Axford was talking to Maisie at her front door and the two women greeted Broomhead with a dirty look as he passed by. He gave them a crooked smile and then glanced fearfully at his own front door. If Alice saw him in that old trilby she would start another row, he thought anxiously. All was well, however. His front door remained shut and he whistled tunelessly as he drove into the yard and jumped down from the cart.

‘There’s only two bundles terday,’ the foreman told him curtly.

The totter loaded the sacking on to his cart and immediately his neck started to itch. The horse seemed uncomfortable too. Its tail started twitching and it swished from side to side as the animal tried to get rid of an irritation.

‘Don’t you start,’ Broomhead growled at the animal as he scratched the back of his hand. ‘C’mon, let’s get out o’ this flea pit.’

The journey to the bacon curers in Tooley Street seemed to take a long time and when he finally got there Broomhead was feeling in need of a cup of tea. He parked the cart outside a coffee shop and walked in, taking off his greasy hat and scratching his spiky ginger hair as he stood at the counter.

‘Oi! Don’t do that in ’ere,’ the proprietor said, giving Broomhead a hard look.

‘It’s that poxy sackin’,’ the totter replied, putting his trilby back on and scratching the back of his hand.

‘I don’t care what it is, I don’t want it all over my customers, so yer’d better leave,’ the angry man said sharply.

‘Sod yer then,’ Broomhead told him, storming out of the shop.

The horse turned its head and watched as the red-faced totter climbed back into the seat and then it started off reluctantly.

The bacon curers was only a short way along the busy Tooley Street but when Broomhead arrived he began to wish he had never got up that morning.

‘Those bundles are no good ter me,’ the manager said sharply. ‘I ’ad ter chuck the last lot away. They were full o’ lice.’

‘Two bob the lot,’ Broomhead said hopefully.

‘I wouldn’t take ’em if yer paid me,’ the man replied, turning his back on the totter.

Broomhead made the journey back to the rag sorters in Page Street blaming Alice for nagging him into going out. ‘Let ’er start on me when I get back,’ he told his horse. ‘I’ll give ’er the back o’ me ’and, that’s what I’ll do,’ not believing it for a minute.

It was certainly not one of Broomhead’s better days, for when he drove into the yard once more the foreman came out of a shed and waved him away. ‘I told yer that was the lot,’ he growled.

‘I don’t want any more,’ Broomhead replied. ‘I’ve come back ter dump these. I can’t get rid of ’em. The bloody bundles are covered in lice.’

‘There’s nuffink wrong wiv those sacks,’ the angry foreman told him. ‘There’s more fleas on that nag than on those sacks.’

‘Well, I’m dumpin’ ’em in the yard,’ Broomhead said, making to get down from the cart.

‘Oh no yer don’t,’ the foreman shouted. ‘If yer try an’ dump ’em ’ere I’ll put the dog on yer. Now go on an’ piss orf out of it.’

Broomhead Smith swore under his breath as he flicked at the reins and set his tired horse moving again. There was only one thing to do now, he decided. He would have to dump the sacking in the river, but first he would stop off at the dining rooms in Cotton Lane. They served a nice sweet cup of tea, and their dripping toast was a tempting thought.

Corned Beef Sam was engaged in an argument with one of his regulars when Broomhead walked in. ‘’Ello, luv. I ain’t seen yer around fer ages. I ’eard yer was dead,’ he said, giving the totter a limp-wristed greeting.

Broomhead scratched the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders as he sought relief from the itching. ‘I will be if yer don’t ’urry up an’ pour me a cup o’ tea,’ he replied.

‘Anyfink wiv it?’ Sam asked, a little piqued.

‘Two o’ drippin’ toast, an’ don’t burn the toast,’ Broomhead told him.

‘’Ere, don’t get saucy,’ Sam retorted, his eyes going up to the ceiling. ‘I’ve got enough ter put up wiv in ’ere wivout you comin’ the ole soldier. What d’yer expect fer fourpence?’

‘Who’s upset you?’ Broomhead asked as he fished into his pocket for his money.

‘Well, it makes yer sick. I’ve ’ad the bleedin’ food inspector round,’ Sam replied in his lilting voice. ‘Mind yer, though, ’e couldn’t find anyfing wrong wiv this place. I’m very careful about the food, an’ I keep the kitchen spotless. In fact the young man said it was the cleanest place ’e’s bin in fer a long time. Still it makes yer sick the way they come in lookin’ all mean an’ ’orrible.’

Broomhead felt too uncomfortable to get into a lengthy discussion and he puffed loudly as he stared at the large teapot standing on top of the steaming urn. Sam gave the restless totter a choice look and proceeded to pour the tea while Broomhead got to grips with the itch that seemed to be moving under his chin and towards his left ear.

‘I ’ope yer’ve not brought anyfing in ’ere,’ Sam remarked, watching Broomhead with concern.

‘Nah, it’s me blood. It’s got over’eated, I s’pose,’ the totter replied, taking up the mug of steaming tea and making for one of the bench seats.

Sam was not convinced and he turned to Bessie Chandler who had just walked out from the kitchen. ‘’Ere, luv, look at that scruffy git over there,’ he said under his breath. ‘I’m sure ’e’s cootie.’

Bessie took one look at Broomhead and leaned over to whisper in Sam’s ear. ‘They’re all the same those totters. It comes from ’andlin’ those ole mattresses,’ she informed him. ‘I remember ole Mrs Stanway who used ter live in our buildin’s. She ’ad a pissy mattress she wanted ter get rid of an’ when the rag-an’-bone man come round ’e took one look at it an’ refused point blank ter touch it. Yer could see the state of it jus’ by lookin’.’

Broomhead was continuing to scratch himself, much to the consternation of the docker sitting opposite.

‘Oi, mister. ’Ave yer got visitors?’ he said to him.

‘Nah, it’s me blood,’ Broomhead replied.

‘Well, yer should get somefink done about it,’ the docker retorted. ‘It could be catchin’.’

Broomhead swallowed his tea in gulps and when Bessie came up with the dripping toast he had started to scratch his right ear. As the big woman walked back behind the counter she was scratching the back of her hand. ‘I dunno what that bloke’s bin ’andlin’ but ’e stinks to ’igh heaven,’ she remarked to Sam.

The docker opposite the totter had started scratching now and Sam felt his back itching. With a flourish he almost threw the heavy teapot back on top of the urn and hurried around the counter. ‘Look, Mr What’s-yer-name. I can’t ’ave yer sittin’ there scratchin’ all the time,’ he said firmly. ‘Yer got us all doin’ it now. I’m afraid yer’ll ’ave ter leave.’

Broomhead took one look at the docker who was leaning towards him in a menacing manner and grabbed up his toast. ‘All right, I’m goin’,’ he growled.

Bessie watched from the window as Broomhead made his way across the lane to his cart and she turned to Sam. ‘It’s those ole mattresses ’e’s got on the back o’ that cart,’ she said. ‘Look, yer can see they’re mattresses. ’E’s got ’em tied up in sackin’.’

Later that afternoon Sam had another visitor, who stood eyeing the cafe proprietor with guarded suspicion. ‘D’yer know it’s an offence ter block the footpath wiv goods?’ he said sternly, scratching the back of his hand.

‘I’m sure it is, officer,’ Sam replied, licking a finger and brushing it over his eyebrow.

‘Well, yer’d better get those two bales o’ sackin’ removed from under yer winder before I ’ave ter take action,’ the policeman told him.

‘Oh my good Gawd!’ Sam sighed in disbelief as he hurried out of his shop.

The weather had become less cold, although the skies were overcast and leaden. Men stood around on street corners and women walked back home from the markets with their shopping baskets half empty as firms in the area continued to operate short-time working and the wharves along the riverside were ghostly quiet throughout the working week. Young children pushed battered prams to the gasworks for coke and young lads scoured the streets for tarry logs to burn. The dole queues became longer and folk who owned a presentable Sunday suit soon found it missing from the house. Only the pawnbrokers flourished, though there were not so many goods being offered for pledge now. Mrs Harrowcot and Mrs Becket from Bacon Buildings went into the workhouse, and one young man from Dockhead took his two children along to the market in Southwark Park Road and offered them for sale. He stood with a notice around his neck saying, ‘£1 the pair. Well behaved and tidy.’ Soon an angry crowd had gathered and he told them that: ‘Anything was better than seeing the kids starve to death.’ The ploy worked, for the children were taken to the local church hall where they were fed before being handed over to the welfare officers. The father was shown pity and offered a temporary job clearing the church gardens of weeds and leaves, but his wife was unimpressed. ‘’E boozes most of ’is wages away when ’e is in work,’ she said scornfully.