Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane

by Harry Bowling

  Rachel was crying now and Annie spoke a few comforting words to her as she set off pushing the pram along the shabby street.

  In the little turning that ran off Bacon Street Florrie Axford, Aggie Temple and Maisie Dougall were standing together with Nellie Tanner and Sadie Sullivan at Aggie’s front door. The Saturday afternoon was fine, with soft clouds drifting in a blue sky. The sun had moved behind the rooftops and it cast shadows halfway up the little houses on the opposite side of the turning.

  Florrie dipped down into her apron pocket and pulled out her tiny silver snuffbox. ‘I ain’t bin a-pictures fer ages now,’ she said. ‘Last time I went ter the pictures it was up the Grand picture ’ouse in Grange Road. I went wiv ole Mrs Watson who lived next door ter me. Yer remember ole Mrs Watson. She moved away years ago. The Keystone Cops it was, or was it Buster Keaton? I can’t remember fer certain. Anyway, I know I walked out ’alfway through the film.’

  ‘Wasn’t it any good then, Flo?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘Nah, it wasn’t the show, it was ’er. Fair gave me the ’ump she did. Goin’ on about the seats all the time she was. Mind yer, we only went in the cheapest seats. ’Ave yer ever bin up the Grand?’

  Everyone shook their heads with the exception of Aggie.

  ‘My ’Arold took me up there once,’ she said. ‘We went in the best seats. They was plush ones. Nice an’ comfy too. If I remember rightly the cheap seats were wooden ones wiv backrests. I told my ’Arold I wasn’t goin’ in no wooden seats. Mind yer, ’e likes ter give me the best, does my ’Arold.’

  Florrie caught Nellie’s eye and pulled a face. ‘My first ole man said that ter me once. All I ever got from ’im was the back of ’is ’and.’

  Sadie Sullivan folded her arms and leaned back against the doorjamb. ‘Well, I’d never let a man knock me about,’ she said with passion. ‘If my Daniel lifted a finger ter me I’d open ’im. Mind yer, ’e ain’t that sort. Soft as butter ’e is. In fact it’s me what ’as ter keep my crowd in order. D’yer know that Billy o’ mine don’t take a blind bit o’ notice when Daniel talks to ’im, but ’e soon listens ter me. I’d give ’im the back o’ me ’and big as ’e is, an’ ’e knows it. It’s the same wiv the twins. They know ’ow far ter go. Pat’s a bit lippy at times but I don’t get no sauce out o’ Terry. ’E’s always bin the quiet one. Young Shaun’s takin’ after Billy though. ’E seems ter be runnin’ round wiv a right rough crowd. Joe tried ter put ’im wise an’ it nearly come ter blows. I dunno, the older they get the more trouble they seem ter be. Sometimes I wish they was all youngsters again, at least yer could put ’em ter bed an’ know where they all were.’

  Nellie nodded. ‘Your Shaun’s got big lately, Sadie,’ she remarked. ‘’Ow old is ’e now?’

  ‘Shaun’s twenty, the twins are twenty-one this year, an’ Joe’s just turned twenty-two. Michael would ’ave bin twenty-four an’ John twenty-five,’ Sadie told her, suddenly taking out a handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbing at her eyes.

  ‘My James would ’ave bin twenty-eight this year,’ Nellie said sadly.

  Florrie took a pinch of snuff and looked up at the sky, waiting for the inevitable sneeze, and Aggie stepped back a pace. She could not abide snuff-taking and was always going on about Florrie Axford’s nasty habits. The women of Page Street were very close friends, however, and even Aggie’s fastidiousness tended to be overlooked by the rest of the women. She was nearly seventy and still very sprightly for her age. Her hair was grey and well cared for and her apron was invariably spotless. Aggie’s husband was five years younger than her and about to retire that year. He had lit and extinguished the lamps of Bermondsey for over thirty years, and now, she confided to her friends in vexation, he was going to be under her feet.

  Florrie told her in no uncertain terms that she would have to get used to it. ‘Yer lucky, Aggie. At least ’e’s a good-un. Yer just ’ave ter ease up on yer tidyin’ up, or yer’ll drive ’im right roun’ the twist. There’s nuffink worse than watchin’ people workin’ around yer.’

  Aggie snorted. ‘Well, I’ll still ’ave ter keep me place clean. It’s bad enough wiv that bleedin’ cat old Broom’ead the totter got me. It stinks the place out at times, an’ I told ’im too. Mind yer, all I got was a load o’ lip. Bloody ole goat ’e is. If my ’Arold ’ad ’eard ’im goin’ on ’e would ’ave put ’is lights out.’

  Maisie Dougall had been listening to her friends going on and she thought it was about time she made a contribution. Maisie was a plump woman in her fifties who always wore her dark hair in a bun at the back of her head. ‘I saw Broom’ead goin’ in the Galloway yard the ovver day,’ she told the gathering. ‘’E came out loaded up wiv old iron. I fink they’ve got rid o’ that chaff-cutter. I’ve not ’eard it goin’ lately.’

  Nellie looked along the turning to the Galloway firm’s gates, a hard look in her eye as the bitter memories locked up inside her stirred once more. She thought of the time George Galloway had come to her home while her husband was off work with badly bruised ribs and told them that he was giving William a week’s notice. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, and she had made her feelings plain to the man her husband had been friends with since his childhood. The two men had been Bermondsey waifs together, living on their wits and sleeping beneath the damp, infested arches in the dirt and rubbish. Galloway had made his way in life and was now a successful businessman. He owned half the houses in Page Street as well as his flourishing transport concern. William had been his yard foreman, caring for the horses as well as being in charge of the carmen, and yet all the years of friendship and good service had in the end counted for nothing. Nellie had grown to detest the very mention of Galloway and she turned to her friends in disgust. ‘I’d like ter see the ’ole bloody place pulled down. Galloway’s give our family enough ’eartaches,’ she said bitterly.

  Florrie had been very friendly with Nellie for many years and she nodded sympathetically. ‘Don’t I know it,’ she said quickly. ‘I tell yer what though, Nell. That young Galloway ain’t no better than ’is ole man. I reckon ’e’s turnin’ out worse. Yer wanna ’ear the carmen who work there go on about ’im. There was two of ’em chattin’ away outside my winder the ovver day. I could ’ear everyfing they was sayin’. The names they was callin’ that Frank Galloway. Apparently ’e’s took over there fer good. Yer don’t see much o’ the ole man these days.’

  ‘I saw ole George Galloway drivin in the yard in that pony-an’-trap of ’is the ovver day,’ Aggie said. ‘Whippin’ that poor ’orse ’e was. ’E looked really fat an’ bloated. Mind yer, I fink it’s the booze. ’E always liked the drink.’

  ‘Pity ’e don’t spend a bit more on these ’ouses,’ Florrie remarked acidly. ‘My place is lettin’ in water again. It’s comin’ in from the roof. All those roofs want doin’. I’ve told the rent collector, if there’s nuffink done I’m gonna stop payin’ me rent.’

  ‘Fat lot o’ good that’ll do yer,’ Nellie said. ‘If yer miss payin’ ’e’ll do the same as ’e did wiv us. Yer’ll be out on the street.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Florrie replied with spirit. ‘I’m goin’ down the Town ’All an’ ’ave a word wiv that medical bloke. They say ’e’s all right ter talk to. I’ll make that ole goat do the repairs, you see if I don’t.’

  The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Maudie Mycroft. She was looking decidedly worried as she put down her shopping bag. ‘My Ernie’s joined the Communist Party,’ she announced gravely.

  ‘Oh my Gawd!’ Florrie exclaimed, rolling her eyes in feigned terror. ‘We’ll all end up bein’ murdered in our beds, I’m sure we will.’

  ‘It’s no laughin’ matter,’ Maudie rebuked her. ‘I’m worried out o’ me life. I said to ’im, “Whatever made yer do it, Ernie?” An’ ’e said, “All workers ’ave got ter rise up against the bosses an’ seize the means o’ production, an’ that day’s not far orf.” I’m worried sick. I mean ter say, Ernie’s not bin very interested in those
sort o’ fings in the past. D’yer know, I ’ad ter nag at ’im ter cast ’is vote before now. It’s those men at the docks. There’s a lot o’ Bolsheviks workin’ there, yer know.’

  ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell’s Bolsheviks?’ Maisie asked, scratching the side of her head.

  ‘It’s them troublemakers from Russia,’ Florrie told her. ‘They’re out ter overfrow the Government.’ With a wry smile she added, ‘They’ll fink I’m a Bolshevik when I go down that Council on Monday mornin’.’

  Maudie had been expecting a better response from her friends, or at the very least a little sympathy, but they seemed not to care. ‘D’yer know they’re atheists?’ she said hopefully.

  ‘What, the Council?’ Sadie asked.

  ‘No, the Bolsheviks,’ Maudie said impatiently. ‘Our vicar was tellin’ us about the people who are leadin’ the uprisin’ in Russia. They don’t believe in God, an’ ’e knows all about such fings.’

  ‘Who, God?’ Sadie asked, hiding a smile.

  ‘No, Reverend Jones. ’E told us on Sunday at the sermon. Gawd knows what I’m gonna go,’ Maudie groaned. ‘If the people at the church find out Ernie’s turned Bolshevik I won’t be able ter old me ’ead up in there ever again.’

  ‘Sounds like ole Reverend Jones is tryin’ ter frighten yer, if yer ask me,’ Florrie remarked.

  Maudie Mycroft could see she was wasting her time seeking sympathy from the women and she picked up her shopping bag. ‘Well, I’ll best be orf,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ve got no time ter stand chattin’.’

  The women watched her leave and when she was out of earshot Florrie turned to the others. ‘Yer know, I fink she’s goin’ roun’ the twist,’ she said, stifling a wicked grin. ‘It’s that muvvers’ meetin’ what’s doin’ it, I’m sure it is. Ole Granny Watson was like ’er. Wouldn’t miss a meetin’, an’ one day she started goin’ a bit funny. It’s wicked really but I ’ad ter laugh. There she was out in the street in ’er nightshift shoutin’ out at the top of ’er voice.’

  ‘I remember that,’ Maisie butted in. ‘She was on about the end o’ the world was nigh. Poor cow was frozen stiff too. Mrs Casey took ’er in an’ called fer ole Doctor Kelly. They got ’er took away in the end. That’s ’ow she come ter move. They found ’er a place near ’er daughter in Kent somewhere.’

  The street was in full shadow by the time the group dispersed. As Nellie Tanner started off Sadie called her to one side.

  ‘’Ave yer got a minute, Nell?’ she asked.

  ‘What is it, Sadie?’

  ‘It’s my Billy. ’E’s got ’imself in a bit o’ trouble,’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘What sort o’ trouble?’ Nellie asked.

  ‘Come indoors fer a minute an’ I’ll tell yer. I can’t talk out ’ere, Nell,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  On Monday morning the dining rooms in Cotton Lane were full of working rivermen. The regular freighter from Denmark had docked and along the quayside barges were moored, filled with coconuts and spices which had been transshipped from the large Oriental freighters at the Royal group of docks downriver. It was the first day’s work in weeks for many of the dockers and all day a steady stream of men passed through the doorway of the little cafe. In the small back room Danny Tanner sat listening to his old friend Billy Sullivan’s problems. Carrie’s young brother was waiting to tie up a brace of barges to a river tug for their journey back to the Royal Albert Dock and he had taken the opportunity to visit his sister and her husband in the dining rooms. Carrie was hard put to it and she had little time to talk with him, but it was not long before Billy turned up at the cafe eager to see his friend and Carrie directed him into the back room.

  Billy was sitting with a mug of tea at his elbow, his flattish face looking serious as he spoke. ‘I wouldn’t ’ave troubled ter go after the job in the first place, Danny,’ he was saying, ‘but yer know she worries. That dopey Arnold told ’er there was a job goin’ at the sawmills. Anyway, she told me if I didn’t go after it she was goin’ ter chuck us out. She said it was about time I started bringin’ in some dosh, ’specially now the ole man’s on short time. Well, I decided I ’ad ter try. Not that I was worried about ’er chuckin’ me out, I know she wouldn’t do that, but it was only right after all. Anyway, down I goes. It was that place underneath the arches in Abbey Street. I ferget the name of it - Brindle’s I fink it was. Well, there was a silly ole cow workin’ in the office an’ when I went in there she give me a dirty look an’ told me ter take a seat. I must ’ave bin sittin’ there fer over an hour an’ then this geezer comes out an’ beckons me in ’is office. There was nowhere ter sit an’ so there was me standin’ in front of ’is desk like a bad little boy. ’E said ter me, “What ’ave yer done in the past year?” an’ I said, “Nuffink.” That didn’t go down very well an’ then ’e asked me why. I told ’im I was gettin’ over me wounds an’ ’e said the work was ’ard an’ did I fink I could manage it. I said, “’Course I can,” an’ then ’e starts lookin’ at these papers as though I wasn’t there. Well, ter cut a long story short ’e ends up tellin’ me that the last bloke was put off fer losin’ too much time an’ I might be a bad time-keeper as well, what wiv me injuries. Anyway, I asked ’im what ’e done in the war an’ ’e told me it was no concern o’ mine. You know me, Danny, I don’t go roun’ askin’ fer trouble but this geezer got me goin’. I knows I ain’t got the job by now so I ups an’ tells ’im a few fings.’

  ‘Like what?’ Danny asked, guessing the outcome.

  ‘I told ’im ’e was a no-good whoreson an’ ’e shouldn’t ’ave wasted my time in the first place,’ Billy replied, his blue eyes blazing at the memory of it. ‘Anyway, ’e told me ter get out an’ called me a lazy so-an’-so so I stuck one on ’im. It was only a slap really but it sent ’im sprawlin’.’

  Danny winced. He was well aware of Billy’s prowess in the ring and knew that although he was far from well he could still punch his weight. ‘An ’e called the police?’

  ‘’Ow did yer guess?’ Billy asked, grinning sheepishly.

  ‘My Carrie told me when I come in ’ere this mornin’,’ Danny replied.

  Billy sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘The ole cow saw me clump ’im frew the office winder an’ she phoned fer the police,’ he said as he put his mug down on the wooden table. ‘I should ’ave ’ad it away smartly but instead I walked inter that little park opposite the firm an’ sat down ter fink. The ole cow must ’ave seen me go in there from the winder an’ suddenly the law pounces on me. These two coppers takes me ter the office an’ the geezer who I whacked told ’em it was me what done it. The coppers asked ’im if ’e wanted ter press charges but ’e said no. Don’t ask me why. P’raps ’e knew ’e was in the wrong by provokin’ me in the first place. Anyway, they give me a good talkin’ to an’ one o’ the coppers kept givin’ me an old-fashioned look. Suddenly, out o’ the blue, ’e asked me if I knew the Tunnel Mob. This was out in the street afterwards.’

  ‘What did yer say?’ Danny asked.

  ‘I said no, didn’t I?’ Billy replied quickly. ‘This copper said ’e used ter be on the Tunnel beat an’ ’e’d seen a bloke who looked like me knockin’ around wiv ’em. Mind yer, Danny, I ain’t seen nuffink o’ Freddie an’ ’is pals since that time last year when we was gonna do that job I told yer about. This copper said the Tunnel Mob’s bin done fer a ware’ouse job in Wappin’. ’E told me they was still lookin’ fer two more blokes who was involved but they don’t know who they was.’

  ‘Well if yer wasn’t involved yer got nuffink ter worry about,’ Danny reassured him.

  Billy looked worried. ‘Trouble is, Danny, they beat the watchman up an’ ’e picked ’em out in an identification parade, so the copper told me. ’E said I might be ’earin’ from ’em. S’pose they take me down an’ put me in a line-up. S’posin’ the ole boy picks me out.’

  ‘Well, if yer wasn’t involved ’e won’t be able to. I shouldn’t worry any more about it,’ Da
nny said dismissively.