The Girl from Cotton Lane (58 page)

Carrie was looking down at her clasped hands, and her smile was wry as she raised her eyes to meet her visitor’s stare. ‘I know what yer mean about exploitation,’ she said with bitterness creeping into her voice. ‘My farvver knew better than most.’

Ellie nodded quickly. ‘Florrie Axford told me about yer farvver workin’ fer Galloway all those years an’ ’ow yer got chucked out o’ yer ’ome in the end. Is that what made yer go in business fer yerself?’ she asked a little accusingly.

‘Yeah, it was,’ Carrie replied. ‘When we lost our ’ome the only place we could find was Bacon Buildin’s. I didn’t want my mum an’ dad ter spend the rest o’ their lives in a slum that’s not fit fer pigs ter live in, so I ’ad ter do somefing. I’ve managed ter get ’em out o’ that ’ovel, fank Gawd. They live ’ere wiv me now. I’m glad ter say I run a business that’s doin’ fairly well, an’ I look after my carmen. We’re a union firm an’ there’s no exploitation ’ere.’

Ellie saw a certain look in Carrie’s eyes and she glanced quickly around the room. ‘D’yer do all the office work yerself or ’ave yer got a clerk?’ she asked.

Carrie shook her head. ‘I’ve bin finkin’ about takin’ somebody on. In fact I’ll ’ave to very shortly. I’m gonna need more time ter go out an’ win contracts, but I can’t while I’m tied ter the office an’ all this paperwork.’

Ellie smiled. ‘I know just the bloke fer you,’ she said with a wise look in her eye. ‘What’s more, I fink ’e’ll more than earn ’is pay.’

Carrie looked at her visitor with a puzzled frown. ‘What d’yer mean?’ she asked her.

Ellie sat forward in her chair. ‘I’ve bin ’elpin’ a family called Robins whose breadwinner ’as been injured at work, an’ in the process I found out that their lad Jamie does clerkin’ fer the Galloway firm. Jamie’s not very ’appy workin’ there an’ I’m sure that if yer offered ’im a job ’ere ’e’d jump at it. I should fink ’e’ll know all about the Galloway contracts and charges. Jus’ fink about the possibilities.’ She winked.

Carrie’s sharp mind was already working overtime. ‘Will yer be seein’ the Robins family in the near future?’ she asked.

Ellie grinned. ‘This evenin’, if there’s any reason to.’

Carrie grinned back at her. ‘’Ow about comin’ over ter the ’ouse an’ meetin’ me mum an’ dad? We can ’ave a nice cup o’ tea while we talk.’

‘Well, I don’t usually spend my time socialising wiv the bourgeoisie, but in this case I’ll make an exception,’ Ellie replied.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Throughout the rest of 1933 and into the new year things did not improve for the Bermondsey folk as factories continued on short-time working and trade at the docks and wharves slumped still further. Men fought to get a day’s work and many ended up spending long hours in the depressing and soul-destroying dole queues. The women had been struggling to make ends meet for a long time but now it had become a battle to provide the bare necessities of life for their families. They found it almost impossible to pay for a doctor and treated illnesses with potions, herbs and home-made poultices. Cupboards were stripped bare and most of the spare bed linen joined the rings and trinkets in the pawnshops. Often pledges could not be redeemed and many people had the heartbreak of seeing their treasured items of jewellery put up for sale in the pawnbrokers’ windows.

For the two friends who ran boxing classes at Murphy’s Gymnasium things were very hard. Billy had been out of work off and on for the last two years and Danny was suffering too with the slump along the waterfront. However, to Billy’s great relief his wife Annie had regained her strength after the last difficult pregnancy and the baby, Mary Jane, was doing well. As much as Annie wanted a large brood she dreaded the thought of bearing any more children while her husband was unable to bring home a regular wage, and Billy shared her concern. Danny had a new son who was named Charlie and his wife Iris had now decided that three young mouths to feed were quite enough.

Murphy’s Gym had become a well-known club throughout South London and boxing tournaments were regular occurrences there. It was often used for political meetings too, and the payments for the hire of the hall helped in the upkeep of the building. The campaign to get boxing banned in the riverside borough had failed completely and the champion of the proposed new bye-law had resigned from the council. Hettie Donaldson had had little success with her petition and had encountered open hostility on her visit to Page Street. One woman had dowsed her with a bucket of cold water and another woman, at number 37, had told her in no uncertain terms that if she ever showed her face in the street again everyone would think that she had been in the ring herself.

For Carrie Bradley the passing months were a time of mixed fortunes. She had engaged Jamie Robins as a clerk and was very pleased at the way he had settled down with the firm. Jamie felt much happier working in the calmer and friendlier atmosphere of the Salmon Lane yard and he got on well with his new employer. His contribution to the success of Carrie Bradley’s cartage firm was evidenced by the new contracts which had been prised away from the greedy grasp of George Galloway. Jamie knew at first hand the fees and charges of the Galloway company and with the knowledge he imparted Carrie was able to undercut on two lucrative contracts when they came up for renewal. One was with a food company which distributed to hotels in London’s West End, and the other was with a Tooley Street manufacturing clothier who supplied the military with uniforms. Carrie found that her transport was now being stretched to the limit and she realised that the day would soon come when she would have to consider using motor vehicles if she wanted to compete with the bigger, more established transport firms.

Carrie still thought about Joe constantly. She had heard nothing from him and she wondered and worried about his well-being. Her personal life had become mundane, an endless round of work and sleep. Every day was spent running the firm and working alongside Jamie Robins on the accounts and wages, but when the long hours were over she nearly always managed to find a little time to sit with her ageing parents and young Rachel, who was growing into a very beautiful woman. Like herself, Rachel missed having Joe around and she was always asking after him. Carrie knew in her heart that she would always love the roguish character, and she had grown to realise that there could be no other man in her life. Rachel was aware how much her mother missed Joe, and she had lain awake some nights willing him to return and praying for his safety as she heard the stifled sobs coming from her mother’s room.

William Tanner was finding it more difficult to get about now and he sat around the house for most of the day, his mind drifting and his thoughts returning to the days and nights he had spent caring for the horses at Galloway’s stables. Occasionally, when the weather was mild, he had been in the habit of taking a short walk to the main thoroughfare and meeting with some of the old men he had known for many years. The group had always met under the giant plane tree in Jamaica Road and had sat together on an iron bench watching the traffic hurry by and folk passing to and fro. There had been Albert Swain and Charlie Smedley, Bob Maycock and George Chislet, as well as Peter Foster, who had sometimes brought his harmonica along and played a few of the old songs. William had enjoyed meeting them on summer afternoons when they sat in the shade of the tree while Peter blew on his musical instrument, the haunting tones carrying the men’s thoughts back through their happier, younger days. Now though the men did not go there. Instead they walked into St James’s Church gardens and sat in the shade of a sycamore tree. The giant plane tree which shaded the iron bench was nearer and there was no busy road to cross but after what George Chislet referred to as the ‘Bank Holiday Affair’ the men all shunned their original meeting-place.

It had happened on the Monday afternoon of the August bank holiday the previous year when the old friends gathered in the shade around the iron bench. Charlie Smedley was there early and some time later he was joined by Albert Swain. The two men sat talking about their army days during the Great War, smoking their clay pipes and occasionally spitting tobacco juice on to the already well-stained pavement. Later they were joined by Will Tanner and Bob Maycock and then by George Chislet who got about with the aid of a pair of walking sticks. The five men squeezed on to the bench together and when Peter Foster arrived a little while later he had to sit on the arm.

‘She went out terday,’ George said suddenly.

‘Who did?’ Albert asked.

‘Why, the
Baltic Star
,’ George told him.

‘What d’yer say?’ Bob asked, his hearing seriously impaired since his accident in the gasworks.

‘She went out terday,’ Albert shouted in Bob’s ear.

‘Where she go?’ Bob Maycock asked.

‘’Ow the bleedin’ ’ell do I know?’ Albert said irritably. ‘Back ter the Baltic, I s’pose.’

‘Lovely ship that is,’ Charlie Smedley cut in. ‘Bin comin’ up the river fer as long as I can remember.’

‘There’s no such fing as ’olidays when yer a seaman,’ Albert remarked. ‘It’s yer tides, yer see. Yer gotta stick ter the tides or yer can’t get away.’

‘There’s not much traffic on the river these days,’ Will said, rolling a cigarette.

George tapped his clay pipe on one of his walking sticks and blew down the stem. ‘I remember back in the early twenties when they was linin’ up ter get a berth,’ he said with authority. ‘Bit different now though. If it goes on like this fer much longer we’ll all be in the work’ouse.’

‘Who’s gone in the work’ouse?’ Bob asked.

The men exchanged grins and Albert leaned towards the dull-eared Bob Maycock. ‘Dirty Doris from Dock’ead,’ he shouted.

Bob nodded and stared out at the passing traffic for a few moments then he folded his arms. ‘She was always ’angin’ round the Crown at one time,’ he remarked. ‘She used ter pick up the seamen.’

‘Who, Dirty Doris?’

‘’Alf a crown she charged by all accounts,’ Bob rambled on. ‘Bert Shanks ’ad ’alf a crown’s worth. ’E told me ’e’d sooner ’ave gone up the Star Music ’All wiv ’is ’alf crown. In an’ out in five minutes ’e was. ’E said the bed was rotten an’ there was fish-an’-chip leavin’s in a newspaper on the washstand. Bert said ’e wouldn’t get on the bed. Frightened ’e’d pick somefing up. ’E ’ad it be’ind the door, ’e did, then ’e asked fer change. Bert said it was only worth two bob.’

‘I bet Dirty Doris give ’im a piece of ’er tongue,’ Albert shouted in Bob’s ear.

‘Who’s talkin’ about Dirty Doris?’ Bob replied indignantly. ‘I’m on about Peggy Macklin from Rovver’ithe.’

Charlie Smedley cut off a piece of plug tobacco and proceeded to chew on it, occasionally spitting put a jet of juice. ‘I remember the time when somebody stuck a red lamp outside Dirty Doris’s ’ouse,’ he said presently. ‘She kicked up merry ’ell the next mornin’. She swore it was ole Broom’ead Smith what done it. Mind yer, I wouldn’t put it past ’im. Broom’ead was a character in those days. Changed now ’e ’as though, since ’e’s bin married ter that Alice Johnson. Poor ole sod’s frightened ter move wivout ’er knowin’. I’d give ’er the back ’o me ’and if she was married ter me.’

The other men grinned at each other, and Peter got out his harmonica.

‘Give us that there one about the miner’s dream, Pete,’ Albert asked him.

Peter spread his elbows as he cupped the instrument to his mouth and the melancholy strains of ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ drifted out on to the summer breeze. The men sat listening quietly, with the exception of Bob Maycock who started on about Peggy Macklin again.

‘Shut yer row, we’re listenin’ ter the music,’ Albert shouted in Bob’s ear.

Bob went quiet and it was not long before he drifted off to sleep. The rest of the men sat thinking and remembering as Peter went through his repertoire, and then when the breeze was getting up and the dust started to swirl around their feet Peter lowered the harmonica from his mouth and rubbed it along the sleeve of his coat. ‘There’s a storm brewin’,’ he remarked.

William Tanner stood up and banged his foot down hard on the pavement to restore the circulation. ‘I’d better be orf ’ome ter me tea or my Nellie’s gonna wonder where I’ve got to,’ he said.

Peter Foster waved goodbye to the group and walked off, while George Chislet stood up and leaned heavily on his sticks. ‘I fink Peter should ’ave bin on the stage the way ’e plays that there mouth organ,’ he remarked.

Albert Swain did up his bootlace and glanced at Bob Maycock who had not moved. ‘Look at that lazy git,’ he said grinning. ‘’E’s bin asleep fer the past hour.’

‘Give ’im a nudge,’ Will said. ‘’E’ll be there till mornin’.’

Albert shook Bob by the shoulder and the man’s head rolled to one side, his mouth open wide. ‘Gawd blimey, I believe ’e’s gorn!’ Albert exclaimed. ‘Look at ’is face.’

William Tanner put his hand on Bob’s neck then slipped it inside the man’s shirt. ‘Yer right, Albert. The poor sod’s dead,’ he said quietly.

‘We’d better get a copper. Yer not s’posed ter move ’em,’ Charlie said fearfully.

‘Ain’t yer s’posed ter stretch ’em out before that there rigid mortis sets in?’ George queried.

‘Leave ’im alone,’ William said. ‘I’ll slip over the paper shop an’ phone the police.’

When the body of Bob Maycock was finally removed from the seat the friends started off for their homes, unable to get the policeman’s words out of their minds. ‘Bloody dangerous that seat,’ he had said. ‘That’s the second body I’ve pulled off o’ there. Two years ago ole Granny Applegate sat down there wiv ’er shoppin’ an’ passed away just like that. If it was down ter me I’d take the bloody seat away an’ chuck it in the furnace.’