The Girl from Cotton Lane (7 page)

‘Was it nice?’ he said, his dark eyes close to hers.

‘Yes, Fred,’ she lied. She had tried to imagine Tommy Allen coming into the bedroom and taking Fred’s place, but it had made no difference. Just thinking of the dark young man with Romany looks who had taken her virginity, and for a short time had loved her so passionately, did not serve her well enough. She felt frustrated and alone, and a tear glistened in her eye as she lay there on her back with Fred’s limp arm lying heavily across her breasts. She had only herself to blame, she knew. After all, it was a marriage of convenience for her. It had been a way of escaping from the poverty into which her family had sunk, and she knew that by working hard for long, tiring hours and helping Fred turn the mediocre business into one that was thriving and profitable she would one day be able to help her parents and her brother too. Why should she feel guilty of deceiving her devoted husband, she asked herself, if it was only in her thoughts?

The Saturday afternoon was drawing in now and Carrie looked out through the partly drawn curtains at the dark, rolling clouds. Rain was threatening and there was a distant roll of thunder. She moved slightly to one side and slipped from under Fred’s arm. He grunted and turned over, snoring noisily. Rachel had been quiet but now Carrie could hear her stirring, the growing sounds of protest coming through the open door. It was wrong for her to become obsessed with Fred’s inadequacy in the bedroom, Carrie told herself. If she was not careful all that she was working for, all that she had planned and schemed for, would be lost forever.

Bill Smith took off his battered trilby and scratched his fuzzy ginger hair as he sat on his cart and urged the horse forward. The animal took no notice and clopped on at a steady plodding pace through the narrow turning. It had been pulling the small cart through backstreets for years now and seemed to know instinctively that it would probably be required to stop at any moment, so there was no point in hurrying. Broomhead Smith, as the totter was known, thought otherwise. He had been sitting on the cart since early morning and all he had to show for scouring the streets was an old tin bath that he had found on some waste-ground, a couple of sacks of rags and one or two pieces of old iron. There was also a badly scratched veneered cabinet which had once housed a gramophone. It was the only piece of junk that Broomhead was optimistic about. The scratches could be filled in with wood-filler and stained to match, and then the veneer cleaned with wire wool and vinegar, he decided. One or two applications of French polish would do the trick. It might even give him a nice profit on his outlay, which was nothing to worry about.

Broomhead had tied the cabinet to the rave of the cart, lest it fall over and become more scratched if by any faint chance the horse decided to show some signs of life. The totter need not have worried. The animal was struggling with a loose shoe and was in no mood to break into a trot. Broomhead Smith had other things on his mind besides the horse. He had been accosted only recently by an irate Aggie Temple when he drove his cart into Page Street, and now he had to steer clear of the little turning until he could fulfil his promise to get the woman a genuine tomcat mouser which had been doctored. The trouble was, the transport yard in Page Street was a good place to pick up bits and pieces of worthwhile scrap. Old horse brasses, damaged wagon wheels and various other items had very often found their way on to the back of his cart in the past without cost. Broomhead had at first considered giving the woman a salutation from his vast treasury of filthy language when she approached him, but he realised that it might damage his rather good reputation. As he prided himself on his fair and honest trading, and the high standards which he always maintained except in extenuating circumstances, the ginger-haired totter had decided he should do the right thing by her.

Broomhead shifted his position on the cart and urged his horse on once more to no effect. They had just turned into Bacon Street when he heard a loud voice calling to him and pulled sharply on the reins. The tired horse stopped dead in its tracks and turned its head around to give him a baleful stare. Broomhead looked up in the direction of the shouting and saw a woman leaning out of a window on the top floor of Bacon Buildings.

‘Yer’ll ’ave ter come down, missus,’ he called out to her, ‘I can’t climb those stairs wiv me bad leg.’

The window was slammed down and Broomhead waited, taking the opportunity of rolling himself a cigarette. Soon a large woman emerged from the block and walked smartly up to his cart.

‘’Ere, I’ve got one o’ them there gramophone fings,’ she said, looking up at him and slipping her hands into the armholes of her stained flowery apron.

‘That’s nice,’ Broomhead said in his usual sarcastic manner.

‘There’s nuffink nice about it,’ the buxom woman told him. ‘My ole man come ’ome pissed last night an’ said ’e wanted ter listen ter a bit o’ music.’

‘I only wanna sleep when I come ’ome pissed,’ Broomhead informed her.

‘Well, you ain’t my ole man,’ the woman reminded him. ‘Anyway, what ’appened was, ’e puts this record on the fing an’ winds up the ’andle, an’ guess what?’

‘Go on, missus, surprise me,’ the totter said unenthusiastically.

‘Well, there was this almighty bang an’ the bleedin’ fing stopped dead right in the middle o’ the music. Luvverly song it was an’ all. It was fair bringin’ tears ter me eyes,’ the woman went on.

‘Look, missus, I don’t wanna be rude, but what the bleedin’ ’ell ’as this all gotta do wiv me?’ Broomhead asked with a deep sigh.

‘My ole man got upset an’ ’e told me ter get rid o’ the bloody fing before ’e got ’ome from work ternight. ’E works on the trams, yer see,’ the woman explained.

‘I can’t buy busted gramophones, lady,’ the totter said, drawing on his cigarette. ‘’Specially when they go orf bang. When that sort o’ fing ’appens it’s the spring, yer see. Bloody powerful springs they are as well. I knew one bloke who overwound one o’ those gramophones an’ the fing busted. Terrible it was.’

‘What ’appened?’ the large woman asked, her eyes bulging.

‘Well, the ’andle spun round an’ sent ’im flyin’ up ter the ceilin’. Poor bleeder split ’is ’ead wide open,’ Broomhead told her. ‘Like a bleedin’ patchwork quilt ’e was, by the time they finished stitchin’ ’im up.’

‘Oh my Gawd!’

‘I don’t fink the Lord ’imself could do anyfing about busted springs, lady. There’s nuffink at all yer can do when the spring goes,’ Broomhead said, grinning evilly.

The buxom woman’s face dropped noticeably. ‘Well, I’m in fer a right ’idin’ if I ain’t got that bleedin’ contraption out o’ the ’ouse by the time my Joshua comes ’ome, ’specially if ’e’s bin on the turps again. What am I gonna do?’

‘Why don’t yer chuck it down in the dustbin?’ he suggested.

‘I would if I could,’ she said, ‘but it’s so bleedin’ ’eavy. It mus’ go ’alf a bleedin’ ’undredweight.’

Broomhead’s artfulness was working like a treat, and for good effect he rubbed his leg. ‘Well, if this war wound stands up ter walkin’ up those stairs I might be able ter get it down ter the dustbin for yer,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Mind yer, I’m not promisin’ anyfink, yer understand.’

‘Would yer try?’ she implored him. ‘I’d be ever so grateful.’

‘Would yer now?’

The desperate woman’s eyes sparkled and she looked up at the craftly totter with new interest. ‘Well, I could make it werf yer while,’ she said fluttering her eyelashes at him.

Broomhead heard warning bells starting to ring in his head. It was bad enough having to make a detour around Page Street without some irate husband from Bacon Buildings being out to cut his throat. ‘I’m a married man, missus,’ he lied. ‘I don’t mess around wiv ovver women. It’s jus’ not werf it.’

‘Please yerself then,’ the woman replied, looking disappointed.

‘Tell yer what I’m prepared ter do,’ the totter said as he scratched his ear. ‘Give us a couple o’ bob an’ I’ll come up the stairs an’ carry the bloody fing down, even if it kills me in the process. After all, we can’t ’ave a nice lady like you takin’ a good ’idin’ from that ’usband o’ yours, now can we?’

The woman’s face brightened up considerably and she gave him a sweet smile. ‘I’ll get on back up the stairs then an’ put the kettle on. I s’pose yer’d like a cuppa fer yer troubles?’ she prompted. ‘Number 64 it is, on the top floor.’

‘Don’t remind me what floor it is, lady,’ Broomhead said quickly, jumping down and reaching for his horse’s nosebag which was strapped beneath the seat.

One hour later, after he had been refreshed and had listened patiently to his grateful client’s sad story about the awful life she was leading at the hands of a brutal husband, Broomhead was on his way. The gramophone was sitting next to the cabinet, and the totter thought they paired up admirably. He urged his horse on home, and for the first time that day it responded by breaking into a trot for a few yards, until it decided that it was more comfortable to walk.

Billy Sullivan felt worried as he waited by the Rotherhithe Tunnel entrance for his confederates. It was nearly five-thirty and still they had not arrived. Billy cursed his lack of sense in agreeing to take part in the robbery. It was too late to back out now, he realised. He would have to keep an eagle eye out for Freddie though. He was quite likely to forget the agreement they had made about the night watchman and, given the slightest excuse, batter the old boy.

The large clock over the pawnbroker’s in Albion Street was showing the half hour when Billy spotted the trio alighting from a tram. They hurried across to him. Freddie looked agitated. ‘There was a bloody ’old-up at Surrey Docks Station,’ he moaned. ‘A poxy tram broke down.’

The four set off along Brunel Road, following the tunnel wall until they passed the Labour Exchange then they veered left and picked up the road which ran alongside the river. It was quiet on that Saturday night, with all the wharves bolted and barred. Freddie the Nark led the way with Chopper walking beside him, and Billy followed behind with Frankie who was humming tunelessly. It was five-forty when they reached Clark’s Wharf.

Freddie turned to the others. ‘Now let me do the talkin’,’ he hissed, ‘an’ when we get in, follow the plan jus’ like we agreed. Don’t ferget now, we gotta ’ave the gates ready fer when Tony brings the lorry up at six sharp.’

Jack Price closed the office door behind him, sat down heavily in the large swivel chair and watched the tin kettle popping rings of steam. The Saturday shift always seemed to drag on endlessly for the elderly night watchman and he envied people who did not have to work at the weekends. Beggars can’t be choosers though, he thought philosophically as he got up, removed the boiling kettle from the gas ring and emptied it into a small china teapot. Being a night watchman had its compensations, he had to admit. There was no foreman to watch over him and he could please himself when he made his walk around the yard. He knew too that his job was important. Many of the wharves were just padlocked with no one to guard them but Clark’s Wharf was different. In the building and the big yard beside it there were cases of very expensive items. The manager had explained to him when he was taken on that the insurance people insisted the wharf was guarded at all times before they would agree to give cover. Jack’s only complaint was that the pittance he was paid hardly reflected the responsibility placed upon him.

Jack Price had never married, and he lived with his ageing sister who was also unmarried. He was sixty-four now, but as a young man he had been in the army and seen action on the North-West Frontier. He had been in many tight spots during his life, and guarding a warehouse did not trouble him unduly. He had worked for various firms doing all sorts of jobs, for he was nothing if not adaptable, and recently, just as he was approaching retirement, the firm he worked for in Deptford had become bankrupt. Jack had been worried. Who would employ a sixty-four-year-old man when there were thousands of young men struggling to find work? The ex-serviceman need not have worried. His employer gave him a glowing reference and spoke about him to a friend by the name of Sir Algernon Clark, a fellow businessman who was having problems with insurance brokers over the size of the premium for insuring his wharf and its most valuable contents. Employing a night watchman was the solution to his problem, and so without delay Jack was sent to see the wharf manager, who felt that the sprightly-looking man who had served on the Khyber Pass would suit admirably.

Jack sipped his tea while he read a dog-eared wild west novel. It was a good way of passing the time, he thought. There was a long night ahead of him, and he would not be relieved until eight o’clock the following morning when Ben Thompson arrived. Ben too was an active man in his sixties and had served in the police force for years, rising to the rank of sergeant. The trouble with Ben was, he still thought he was in the police force and was constantly leaving scribbled messages about procedures for patrolling the yard and checking the padlocks and bolts.

Bloody old fool. Who does he think he is, anyway? Jack thought to himself as he poured yet another cup of tea and took it back to his comfortable swivel chair. It’s a good job Peggie’s not here, he told himself as he sipped the tea. She was always on about the amount of tea he drank. Poor old Peg. Shame she never married. She had never got over that chap who left her in the lurch all those years ago. Nevertheless she had been a good, kind sister and looked after him very well. She was breaking up now, though, Jack reflected sadly. Never mind, he’d buy her a nice bunch of flowers from that stall outside the infirmary on his way home. She’d like that.