The Girl from Cotton Lane (64 page)

In February 1936 Carrie realised her long-time ambition when she bought two Leyland lorries and openly competed for the longer-distance haulage work. Bradley Cartage Contractors was now firmly established and the contracts started to come in. In March she bid against the Galloway firm for a regular contract with a large food-processing company in Bermondsey and her tender was accepted. For a time everything ran smoothly. The two drivers she had employed proved reliable and there was still regular contract work for her horse transport. Carrie’s business had weathered the quiet winter months better than most of the cartage firms and she now looked forward to a busy spring.

Towards the end of March, however, things began to go wrong. One of the lorries broke down at the food factory one Monday morning and it was later discovered that there was sand in the fuel-lines. The following week one of the wagons was almost run off the road by a speeding lorry and the cheerful carman Paddy Byrne just escaped being thrown under the wheels. Another incident occurred soon after and almost proved fatal for the lorry driver.

Tom Armfield had spent the early morning loading cases of canned foods at the factory and by eleven o’clock he was on his way to make a delivery to the Royal Navy depot at Chatham. Tom was feeling happy and whistled to himself as he drove up the steep hill to Blackheath. The vehicle was a new one and it handled well. The sun was shining and the day promised to remain fine as he slipped into top gear and motored across the empty heath. He could see the little village church away to his right, and beyond, Blackheath village. Way in front he saw the long steep rise of Shooter’s Hill. The engine sounded sweet, with a comforting reserve of power beneath his feet. As he caught up with a slow-moving horse cart in front of him it slowed almost to a standstill and swung round tightly into a narrow side turning. Tom was forced to brake. It was then that he felt the excess movement of the brake pedal and had to press down harder than normal to ease back his vehicle.

The road ahead was clear now and he pressed down on the accelerator. The responding roar was strong and he felt the power as the lorry took the steep hill at a good rate. Twice down through the gears and he was at the brow of the hill. Below him in the early spring air he saw the countryside spread out and the distant township. The weight of the five-ton load was thrusting forward as he headed down the hill in third gear and applied the footbrake. Again the pedal travelled too far for comfort, and then suddenly it went straight down to the floorboards. There was nothing there! Tom pumped hard on the pedal as the speed of the vehicle increased and a sickening feeling gripped his stomach as he realised that the brakes were useless. There was nothing he could do except try to steer tight to the kerbside in an effort to slow the lorry down. It bumped and jolted with a shudder and he could feel the momentum and hear the screeching of the tyres against the kerbstones. It was holding for the moment he thought and with a quick action he managed to change down a gear. He gritted his teeth at the grating noise, dreading he would strip the gear, but it worked. The vehicle was holding a constant speed and Tom was anxious to throw on the handbrake, but he knew that it would be no good if he applied it too soon.

‘Oh my Gawd!’ he cried aloud as he saw the motor car pull out from a side road at the bottom of the hill and pressed hard on the horn as he drew closer and closer. The car pulled in towards the kerb and by swinging hard on the wheel Tom managed to miss it by inches as he passed. It was now or never, he thought, and with all the strength he could muster he pulled back the handbrake, letting the nearside wheels rub against the kerb at the same time. The lorry jarred horribly but he managed to hold it steady and it pulled up abruptly with a shudder. Tom dropped his head over the wheel, his breath coming fast.

‘Bloody maniac!’ the car driver shouted at him as he drove by.

Tom Armfield forced a grin and then retched out of his cab window.

On Friday evening all of Carrie’s workers were assembled in the yard office, Carrie stood with her back to the door, her face grim as she addressed them. ‘I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but yer can be sure I’m gonna find out,’ she said in a determined voice.

Paddy Byrne looked up from rolling a cigarette. ‘It’s lucky me an’ Tom wasn’t killed, Mrs Bradley,’ he remarked. ‘Somebody’s be’ind all what’s ’appened, right enough.’

Carrie nodded. ‘Now look, all of yer. I’m givin’ yer the chance ter leave now. There’ll be a full week’s wages fer anybody who wants ter leave right away. I can’t ask yer ter take chances fer my sake.’

Big Jack Simpson rubbed his hand over his shaven head. ‘We ain’t finkin’ o’ leavin’, Mrs Bradley. We jus’ want yer ter get it sorted out, that’s all.’

‘All right, Jack. I promise yer I’ll get ter the bottom of it,’ Carrie told him. ‘What yer mus’ remember though is not ter leave yer wagons or lorries unattended. When yer use the coffee shops make sure yer pull up where yer can see ’em. If possible use the coffee stall so yer can keep a better eye out. I know it’s gonna be ’ard fer a time but I’ll do me best ter get it sorted out, that’s all I can say.’

‘’Ave yer got any ideas who might be at the back of it, Mrs Bradley?’ Tom asked.

‘Well, whoever it is they’ve got some knowledge o’ lorries,’ Carrie replied. ‘First there was sand in the fuel-pipes of Tubby’s lorry, then your lorry ’ad the brake-cables loosened. Fings like that don’t ’appen by accident.’

Tubby Walsh rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. ‘Don’t yer fink it’s about time yer called in the police?’ he asked.

Carrie folded her arms and arched her back against the door. ‘I’ve given it a lot o’thought, Tubby, but the police’ll only take statements an’ advise us ter be careful. They can’t foller us about all over the place. Besides, whoever’s doin’ it will jus’ lie low till the coast is clear. No, it’s gotta be ’andled anuvver way. I tell yer this though. Stick wiv me frew this an’ I’ll make sure yer’ll all benefit. I’m workin’ out a bonus scheme over the weekend. When I earn, you’ll earn.’

Paddy Byrne took a puff of his cigarette. ‘That sounds all right as far as I’m concerned,’ he said, looking round the room.

Voices were raised in support and Carrie smiled with relief. ‘Right, men, get off ’ome now, an’ fanks fer yer support.’

Frank Galloway slipped out of the Crown and made his way past the quiet wharves to London Bridge Station. He carried a small attaché case and a light mackintosh over his arm, and as he reached the long flight of steps which led up to the station forecourt he smiled smugly. Bella had taken the story hook, line and sinker, he told himself. But then she would, if she thought there was money involved. Going up to Yorkshire to look into the possibility of buying a fleet of lorries from an ailing transport concern seemed a tall story but he had been convincing. He had made sure he looked peeved when he told her he would have to spend Friday and Saturday nights in a grotty boarding-house in some dull provincial town, but pound notes worked with Bella, and the gift of a new coat had helped to put her into a happy frame of mind. The bloody woman was clothes mad, he grumbled to himself. She would soon need another wardrobe to hang the stuff.

Never mind, the weekend he had planned would be worth the cost of that new coat. Peggy Harrison was the sort of lady who could make anyone forget their troubles. Two whole nights in a discreet hotel on the Sussex coast with Peggy for company was going to be something to remember, Frank thought with relish. She was some woman, and her story to her husband Theo Harrison had been even more bizarre than his to Bella. Theo was desperate for children and Peggy had no intentions of supplying him with any, but as far as Theo was concerned his dutiful wife was as sad as he was about her inability to become pregnant by him. A private clinic in Bournemouth had been doing tests on women desperate to conceive, and the results had been staggering, according to Peggy’s make-believe friend. It would mean two whole days and nights bed rest, and some pretty horrible tests, Peggy told Theo, but anything was worth trying if she could give him what his heart most desired. Theo had been very pleased at the hopeful news, and he had even offered to book himself into a nearby hotel while his wife suffered on his behalf, just to be near her, but Peggy had dissuaded him. She had told him she couldn’t bear to think he was suffering too. Better he had a pleasant weekend at the golf links with his drinking friends and did not worry unduly. All would be well.

Frank hid a smile as he boarded the seven-fifteen to Rye. Peggy was a very shrewd lady, and Theo’s increased fortune, thanks to the insurance pay-out, made her tread very warily. There would be no poison added to his soup. Peggy already had There would be no poison added to his soup. Peggy already had a very substantial allowance and access to Theo’s bank account. It was all looking very rosy, Frank thought, unaware of the heavily built character in a dirty raincoat and trilby hat who boarded the same train, and who had been following him since he left the Crown.

On Monday morning after the last of the transport had left the Bradley yard Don Jacobs called round. Carrie gave him her usual peck on the cheek and took his arm as she led him to the house. ‘It’s bin a long time, Don,’ she said, looking at him closely. ‘Yer’ve lost weight.’

‘It’s the long meetin’s an’ short sleeps,’ he replied grinning. ‘I understand there’s bin trouble in the camp.’

Carrie’s face became serious, and while she brewed the tea she told him about the recent acts of sabotage to her fleet. ‘I’m worried, Don. Tom Armfield was nearly killed, an’ Paddy Byrne too,’ she said, handing him his tea.

Don stared down at the brimming teacup for a few moments then looked up with a frown. ‘’Ave yer any ideas who’s responsible, Carrie?’

‘I’ll give yer two guesses,’ she said.

‘Yer fink it’s Galloway?’

‘I’m positive,’ she replied. ‘I beat ’im ter the Mason contract an’ then I got anuvver contract ter cart Bedwall’s machinery by undercuttin’ ’im. I’ve become a thorn in ’is side an’ ’e’s feelin’ bad about it.’

Don shook his head. ‘I dunno, Carrie, Galloway’s bin in business a long time. All right I know yer got no time fer the man, an’ I know yer always suspected ’im o’ bein’ be’ind those troubles we ’ad durin’ the General Strike, but it was never proved. I know what a cantankerous ole goat Galloway is, especially from the union point o’ view, but would ’e resort ter those kind o’ tactics?’

‘Maybe George Galloway wouldn’t, but I don’t trust that son of ’is, an’ after all, it is Frank Galloway who’s runnin’ the business now.’

‘Is that a fact?’ Don said, looking surprised.

‘It’s common knowledge,’ Carrie told him. ‘When I went after that food factory contract I was told by their transport manager that it was the younger Galloway who ’andled their tender. It would ’ave bin the ole man ’imself a few years ago. George Galloway must be near eighty now. Dad told me once that Galloway was two years older than ’im, an’ Dad was nearly seventy-six when ’e died.’

Don sipped his tea. ‘What about the police?’ he asked.

‘I dunno,’ she replied, toying with a teaspoon. ‘I got the men tergevver last Friday evenin’ an’ they felt I should get the police in, but yer know yerself there’s not much they can do wiv so little ter go on. No, I told the men I was gonna ’andle it meself.’

Don looked closely at her, a smile growing on his wide face. ‘Yer never give up, do yer, Carrie?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What yer gonna do, go round an’ front Frank Galloway?’

‘That’s exactly what I am gonna do,’ she told him.

Don Jacobs looked at her with concern. ‘D’yer know what yer takin’ on? If yer openly accuse ’im ’e’ll just laugh at yer. Yer gotta ’ave proof, an’ what proof ’ave yer got? For all yer know it might be one o’ the ovver contractors whose nose yer’ve put out o’joint.’

Carrie shook her head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Don, but I’m convinced I’m right. I’d be willin’ ter bet everyfing I own that whoever’s gettin’ at me is in the pay o’ the Galloways. That family ’ave caused us enough grief over the years an’ I’ll never be satisfied until I see that firm go out o’ business. Whenever the Galloway firm tender fer contracts I’ll bid against ’em. I’ll cut my tenders ter the bone an’ I’ll even cover a short-term loss if I ’ave to.’

Don Jacobs put down his teacup and leaned back in his chair. ‘Yer know, Carrie, when yer first bought Buckman’s out I gave yer six months,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘I couldn’t see yer lastin’ in this cut-froat game, but I know now that I was wrong. Yer’ve not only lasted, yer’ve now got about the best transport set-up in the area. I’m very pleased fer yer, but yer beginnin’ ter scare me, I don’t mind admittin’.’