Freddy nodded reassuringly to his friends. After a short time had passed he began to tap his foot on the kerb impatiently. It had gone very quiet. As he waited the young man began to feel the tension knotting his stomach. It was the feeling he got while watching out for the bookies when the police were in the area. ‘C’mon, Mr Price. Hurry,’ he called out loudly.
There was no answer, and suddenly all Freddie’s experience, all his intuition told him to leave, but fast. Panic seized him and with a sudden curse he turned away from the wicket-gate of Clark’s Wharf and gestured at the others to get away. He broke into a trot and the three surprised young men did likewise, aware that something must have gone wrong. Freddie felt his fear growing and he was running now through the quiet riverside lane. He did not stop until he was back in Brunel Road, where the warren of local backstreets seemed to offer safety.
Frankie and Chopper were on Freddie’s heels, but Billy had not been able to keep up with them. His chest felt as if it was going to burst and he felt sick and dizzy as he settled down to a steady plod. Whatever had gone wrong was not important to him now. He felt suddenly light, as though the burden of the last few days had suddenly lifted from his shoulders. When he last few days had suddenly lifted from his shoulders. When he finally turned into Brunel Road and stopped to catch his breath the others were nowhere to be seen. Billy pulled up the collar of his coat and rammed his hands deep into his trouser pockets, feeling suddenly cold as he plodded on. It was when he finally reached the end of the turning by the Rotherhithe Tunnel entrance that he saw the three standing together across the street. The pawnbroker’s clock showed five minutes to the hour and Billy suddenly remembered that Tony McCarthy was due and his friends must be waiting for him. As he hurried across the street Freddie spotted him. ‘Where d’yer get to?’ he asked irritably.
Billy looked at him derisively. ‘What’re you up to then?’ he countered.
‘It’s gone wrong,’ Freddie replied. ‘’E was phonin’ the police, that’s what ’e was doin’. That’s why I said ter scarper.’
Chopper suddenly pulled on Freddie’s arm. ‘There ’e is!’ he said excitedly, pointing.
Billy stifled the urge to laugh out loud. Tony McCarthy was driving a solid-tyred Leyland lorry that had the words ‘Salvation Army’ emblazoned along its canvas sides and on a board fixed above the cab. Tony had seen the four standing dejectedly on the street corner and he put his foot on the brake pedal, bringing the vehicle to a shuddering halt.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said as he jumped down from the cab.
‘The ole bastard twigged it. ’E left me roastin’ outside the gates while ’e went an’ phoned the police,’ Freddie moaned.
‘’Ow d’yer know?’ Tony asked, suspecting that Freddie had lost his nerve at the last minute.
‘I could tell,’ the Nark replied. ‘I get that feelin’ in me guts when it’s dodgy. It’s the same when I’m narkin’ out. I can always tell.’
Tony scratched his head and a sour grin appeared on his handsome face. ‘’Ow we gonna get our money back? I’ve already ’ad ter fork out fer the lorry. Fifty shillin’s it cost me,’ he growled. ‘I ’ad ter spin the geezer a tale that I was usin’ it ter move a poor family out o’ the buildin’s where I live.’
‘Yer ain’t gotta take it back yet. Let’s go fer a ride,’ Chopper butted in, his large flat face breaking out into a smile.
‘We could go up ter ’Ampstead. I ’eard it’s lively up there on Saturday nights,’ Frankie said quickly.
‘’Ampstead’s bleedin’ miles away. It’ll take too long,’ Tony replied, shaking his head. ‘It’ll ’ave ter be somewhere nearer.’
‘I know, let’s go over the water ter Poplar. That ain’t far from ’ere,’ Chopper said helpfully. ‘It’s only the ovver side o’ the tunnel.’
‘What’s so bleedin’ good about Poplar?’ Freddie chimed in.
‘It’ll be a ride, an’ we can come back over Tower Bridge,’ Chopper suggested.
‘C’mon then, let’s get goin’. I don’t feel safe ’angin’ around ’ere,’ Freddie said, climbing into the cab.
‘Where we gonna sit?’ Chopper asked.
‘You lot can sit on the back,’ Freddie said grumpily.
Billy felt a sudden anger towards the shifty-eyed character. ‘Move over, I’m gettin’ in there alongside you,’ he said sharply. ‘I ain’t climbin’ up the back.’
The lorry set off with Chopper Harris and Frankie Albright sitting on the floor of the lorry, their arms resting on the top of the tailboard. Tony was humming to himself as he drove along but Freddie sat silent, sulking over the raid that never was. Billy felt the wind rushing into the cab as the lorry trundled through the tunnel and he felt relieved. It was all so ridiculous, he thought, allowing himself to get involved with these motley characters. It was the chance to get some big money on the quick which had swayed him. The chance to buy the land for the gymnasium had disappeared for the time being, but it was not the end, he told himself. He would raise the money somehow.
The lorry had not long come out of the tunnel when Tony suddenly clicked his tongue and applied the footbrake. A uniformed policeman had stepped out from the kerb up ahead and was waving them into a side road.
‘They’re on to us,’ he groaned, wondering whether he should put his foot down on the accelerator instead. Billy felt his heart sink but Freddie remained calm. ‘It’s all right. Leave the talkin’ ter me,’ he said as Tony turned left and stopped the vehicle by the kerb.
‘Evenin’, lads,’ the constable said affably. ‘There’s a water main burst down by Lime’ouse Church so yer’d be better goin’ via Cable Street. I saw the emblem on the front o’ the lorry as yer drove up an’ I guessed where yer was goin’.’
‘That’s more than we ’ave,’ Freddie mumbled under his breath.
‘Strikes me there’s a lot o’ good bein’ done at them meetin’s,’ the policeman said cheerfully. ‘Don’t mind a drink meself, but I was never one ter get drunk. Moderation is what I say. That’s the trouble, yer see. Too many people can’t ’old their drink an’ they can’t say no. It’s the likes o’ them should be at those meetin’s, an’ if your people manages ter convert just a couple o’ drunkards each time then they’ve done a good job. I see a lot of it, as yer would imagine.’
The three young men sat in the cab totally confused by what he was saying, but Freddie smiled benignly at him nevertheless. ‘You’re perfectly right, constable. I think strong drink is damnation. I think it’s worse than fornication in the eyes of the Lord,’ he declared, nudging Billy with his elbow.
‘Me too,’ Billy said quickly.
Chopper Harris had peered around the vehicle, and his mouth fell open as he saw the officer talking to his friends. ‘We’ve bin nabbed!’ he gasped out to Frankie. ‘It’s a bluebottle!’
Frankie Albright put his finger up to his mouth and motioned Chopper to get down. The two slipped quietly over the tailboard and marched off smartly along the Commercial Road, not daring to run in case they attracted the policeman’s attention.
‘By the way, lads, I’m makin’ fer Cable Street. I’d be grateful fer a lift ter the site if yer don’t mind,’ the constable asked.
Billy made to get out of the cab but the policeman held up his hand. ‘Stay there, son. I’ll stand on the runnin’-board,’ he said.
The lorry pulled away from the kerbside with Tony the driver looking helplessly at his two friends. ‘Where we s’pose ter be goin’?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘It mus’ be some sort o’ meetin’,’ Freddie mumbled in reply. ‘I fink ’e finks we’ve got the equipment.’
Billy was too close to the policeman to make any suggestion, though he was at a loss anyway, but Freddie suddenly remembered something he had read in a newspaper about the temperance revivals in the East End of London. ‘’E finks we’ve come ter put the tent up!’ he hissed.
‘Oh, fer Chrissake,’ Tony gasped. ‘What we gonna do?’
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p; ‘’Ow the bloody ’ell do I know?’ Freddie growled. ‘Bluff it out, I s’pose.’
The policeman was hanging on to the door and obviously enjoying the ride. ‘If yer turn right ’ere then turn first left yer’ll come out right by the site,’ he shouted helpfully.
Tony did as he was told and finally saw the large area of waste ground ahead. A lorry similar to theirs was parked by the roadside and on the site there was feverish activity. A large marquee was being erected and everywhere men seemed to be pulling and heaving on large ropes.
‘I thought you lot ’ad the tent,’ the policeman said with a puzzled look on his face.
‘No, officer. We’ve been sent to sort out the finer details,’ Freddie said with a flash of inspiration.
‘Oh? An’ what might that be?’ he asked.
‘There’s lots o’ seats to set up and they want a nice big pulpit built,’ the Nark continued, beginning to enjoy himself despite the possible danger to their freedom.
‘I’d say yer got yer work cut out,’ the officer remarked.
‘There’s anuvver two in the back,’ Freddie said smiling.
As the policeman stepped down and walked to the rear of the lorry Billy turned to Freddie and shook his head slowly. ‘Yer shouldn’t ’ave mentioned those ovver two,’ he grated. ‘If that rozzer sees Chopper ’e’s gonna twig somefing’s up. Chopper looks more like ’e’s on the run from Dartmoor than a bloody Salvation Army bloke.’
The policeman returned to the front of the vehicle. ‘There’s no one in the back,’ he said. ‘There’s nuffink in the back. I thought yer said yer was bringin’ the seats. Yer did say that, didn’t yer?’
Freddie laughed. ‘No, officer. I said we was sent to set up the seating and the pulpit.’
‘But yer said there was two more of yer in the back,’ the policeman persisted.
‘No, I said at the back. I meant in the ovver lorry. It’s following up. That’s a bigger vehicle and it’s full o’ benches and suchlike,’ he said, a note of desperation beginning to creep into his voice.
The police officer gave the young man a strange look and Billy cut in quickly. ‘We’d better give the lads an ’and,’ he said, nudging Freddie.
‘Well, thanks for all your help, officer,’ the Nark said, following Billy and Tony on to the waste ground.
The tent riggers looked surprised and mystified as three strangers started to lend their muscle to the ropes. Freddie groaned as he saw the policeman coming over to him.
‘I’ll walk up to the main road. Your mates might be stuck in that traffic ’old-up at Lime’ouse,’ he said to Freddie.
‘I’m much obliged,’ the would-be warehouse-breaker replied, shaking the policeman by the hand. ‘We’d like to get finished soon as possible.’
The policeman nodded. ‘I ’ope so too. We’re guardin’ this tent all night an’ it looks like rain. I’d much sooner guard it from the inside,’ he grinned.
Freddie smiled and began pulling on the rope.
‘Oi! What yer doin’?’ one of the riggers shouted at him. ‘If yer pull on that one the ’ole bloody lot’ll come down.’
Freddie glanced fearfully in the policeman’s direction but he was already walking smartly along the narrow street. ‘C’mon, you two. Let’s be orf,’ he hissed.
‘Oi! Give us an ’and wiv this rope,’ the foreman rigger called out to them.
‘Poke yer poxy rope! I ’ope the ’ole bloody lot falls down,’ Freddie snarled at him.
Soon the lorry was rolling once more. Freddie the Nark sat back in the cab, feeling very pleased with himself for the way he had handled such a tricky situation. Both Billy and Tony had praised his coolness, and they were puzzling over the fate of their confederates.
‘They might ’ave fell out when we pulled up,’ Tony volunteered.
‘Nah. They jumped out more like,’ Freddie laughed. ‘They must ’ave seen the rozzer.’
‘Nice bloke, wasn’t ’e?’ Billy remarked, grinning broadly.
‘Chopper an’ Frankie’s got a long walk ’ome,’ Tony said.
‘Not if I know Chopper. ’E’ll most prob’ly get a cab an’ then do anuvver runner,’ Freddie laughed.
The three lapsed into silence until the lorry was rumbling over Tower Bridge, then Freddie slipped his hand into his coat pocket and took out a handful of silver. ‘’Ere, Tony. There’s the dosh fer yer pal. Yer’ll all ’ave ter ’ave a whip round ter pay yer share. I can’t stand the lot.’
Billy nodded. ‘I wonder if that ole boy did phone the police,’ he said.
‘Yer can bet yer life ’e did,’ Freddie said positively. ‘I could feel it in me water. I can smell trouble o’ that sort a mile orf.’
Freddie was right. Jack Price had hurried to the phone and informed Dockhead police station that there was an attempted robbery in progress at the Clark Wharf. Freddie the Nark’s impersonation of a police officer had sounded convincing to him, until he said that Peggie had fallen at her home. She had, but it had happened the previous afternoon, and Jack had gone with her to Rotherhithe Infirmary where she had been admitted with a broken hip.
Chapter Six
In the early months of 1920 the little dining rooms in Cotton Lane prospered. The docks were experiencing a boom in trade and all day long a steady stream of customers came and went. Carrie and Fred worked hard all day, aided by the vociferous Bessie Chandler, whose tales about the trials and tribulations of her friends in the buildings where she lived became painful ongoing sagas. Fred suffered the most, for Bessie worked at his elbow most of the day. She was very efficient though, and as she went on endlessly about her neighbours she seemed to race through her chores with increasing speed. The pastry took a terrible pounding at times, and Bessie kneaded the dough with a vengeance as she talked of Kate Kerrigan, one of her sworn enemies. Fred would listen patiently until he could stand no more and then depart to the small back yard, where he sat on an upturned tea-chest and vowed that one day he would forget how efficient his kitchen hand was and just do away with her.
Carrie worked unceasingly behind the counter, rushing off upstairs often during the afternoons to tend to Rachel once Annie McCafferty had left. At such times Fred Bradley got some respite from Bessie’s ever-wagging tongue. His assistant took over behind the counter and proceeded to inflict the continuing stories of her friends and enemies in the buildings on the dockers and carmen. They took little notice of her, though; the rough, bawdy crowd were more interested in the fortunes of their local football teams, Millwall and West Ham. When Carrie was serving she often became involved in their conversations at the counter. The young woman made a point of following the respective teams’ results and their positions in the league tables and she held her own in the sporting discussions and arguments. Bessie knew nothing about football, and her constant harping on one subject caused her to become somewhat of an object of ridicule. The buxom, ginger-haired woman also had a shady past, and it did little to help the poor woman’s image when it was resurrected by two regular carmen.
Sharkey Morris and Soapy Symonds had both worked at the Galloway transport firm in Page Street for a number of years. Both had left after arguments with the firm’s owner and they now worked for Tommy Hatcher in Long Lane. They liked and respected Carrie’s father, who had been their foreman at Galloway’s, and it was Sharkey who had told Carrie about Fred wanting a serving-girl for the cafe. He had promised William Tanner he would keep his eye on his daughter and make sure that she was treated right and that none of the customers took advantage of her. Soapy Symonds also minded Carrie’s welfare as far as he could, and both men were favourites of the pretty young girl who had now become the joint owner of Bradley’s Dining Rooms.
Sharkey and Soapy were both in their fifties. Sharkey was tall and gangling with broad shoulders and a wicked sense of humour, while Soapy was smaller in stature, stooping and with hawklike features. They often came into the dining rooms together and one day they were trying not to listen as Bessie was going on at l
ength about her friend Elsie Dobson.
‘’Ark at Bessie Bubbles goin’ orf again,’ Soapy groaned to Sharkey.
‘Who?’ one of the carmen sitting with the two asked.
‘Bessie Bubbles. That’s what she was known as when she was on the game,’ Soapy informed him.
‘Bessie on the game? I don’t believe it,’ the carman said incredulously.
‘’S’ right. She was a Lisle Street whore,’ Soapy said unkindly. ‘She was found out by a couple o’ the local lads who went over Charin’ Cross fer a good time. It’s a long story but it’s true, sure as I sit ’ere. She used ter wear a blond curly wig. All the street found out eventually. Mind you, there’s a lot do it an’ never get found out. Poor ole Bessie come unstuck.’
‘What about ’er ole man? Didn’t ’e ever find out?’ the carman asked. ‘She’s always on about ’im.’
Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 7