The woman put her hands on her hips and surveyed him. ‘Well, yer see, I can’t bear ter look at it,’ she told him. ‘Me first ole man bought it fer me, an’ ’e’s bin gorn fer over twenty years now. Lovely man, ’e was, not like the ole goat I’m married to now.’
‘Well, I should fink it ain’t much joy lookin’ at the new wringer if yer can’t stand the man what bought it fer yer,’ Broomhead remarked, taking his hat off and scratching his head again.
‘Oh, but yer see it’s nice ter look at that new one,’ she said, smiling crookedly at him. ‘That was about the only fing I ever got orf my second ole man that didn’t ’urt. A violent man ’e was.’
‘Was?’
‘Yeah, ’e run orf wiv a barmaid from the Crown. Yer know the Crown?’ she asked him.
Broomhead nodded. ‘’E’s still livin’ then?’ he queried.
‘Oh, yeah. Well, I fink so anyway. Last I ’eard ’e was knockin’ ’er about, so she ain’t won a prize, ’as she?’
Broomhead studied the newly exposed wringer. ‘I couldn’t give yer anyfing fer this, missus,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s rusted right frew. It’d prob’ly fall ter pieces before I got it on the cart.’
‘Well, I really want it out o’ the way,’ the woman said, her voice taking on a pleading tone. ‘Won’t yer consider it?’
‘I could take it, but it ain’t werf nuffink ter me,’ Broomhead said in a thoughtful tone of voice. ‘It’s only good fer the dustmen.’
‘The dustmen won’t take it. I’ve already asked ’em,’ she replied.
Broomhead studied the woman. She was in her late forties, he guessed. Rather plump, but a nice, kind face, and spotlessly clean. Her dark, greying hair was neat and tidy too. She had dimples in her chubby cheeks, and that was the deciding feature as far as Broomhead was concerned.
‘I’ll tell yer what I can do, luv,’ he said, reverting to the term of endearment he used when he was feeling amiable. ‘I’ll take it fer two bob. Mind yer, I wouldn’t normally do this, but as it’s the wringer yer first ole man bought yer I’ll make an exception.’
‘Well, that’s very nice of yer, I mus’ say,’ the lady declared, giving him a wide smile.
‘Righto then, I’ll get it on the cart,’ Broomhead said, flexing his muscles.
‘Would yer like a cuppa?’ she asked him.
Broomhead nodded as he struggled with the rusty wringer. This lump of old iron wasn’t going to bring much, he knew full well, but the cogs were still full of grease and they could be used to fix up the other wringer he had in his shed. More importantly, though, he had made a good impression on the woman. She might be just the sort he had been thinking about. She was presentable, even if she was a little plump, and it looked like she had a tidy home. He would have to give it some thought while he was having his cup of tea and a chat, he decided.
The tired nag turned its head and stared at Broomhead while he struggled with the wringer, and once it was safely loaded on the cart the totter turned and glared at the horse. ‘Who you lookin’ at, yer bloody fleabag?’ he growled, taking a sack of chaff from under his seat and filling the horse’s nosebag.
The woman came out and stood in her doorway watching him fit the nosebag over the animal’s head. ‘Yer do look after yer ’orse, don’t yer?’ she remarked with a smile on her face.
Broomhead nuzzled his nag and ruffled its ear fondly. The animal was so surprised at such a show of affection that it jerked its head upwards, blowing into the bag and showering him with chaff. The totter smiled at the woman and dusted himself down carefully, casting a few deadly glances back at the horse as he followed her into her neat and tidy parlour.
Around the walls there were prints in ebony frames and on the mantelshelf Broomhead saw large iron statues of nude maidens holding flaring torches aloft. In the centre of the shelf there was an ormolu clock mounted on a black marble plinth and above it an oval mirror in a silver frame. A gingham tablecloth was spread over the table and in the centre there was a vase containing paper flowers. The two armchairs were shabby but with spotless white linen headcloths and arm covers spread over them, and there was a walnut sideboard against the wall facing the lace-covered window.
Broomhead took off his trilby and placed it on the floor beside him as he settled into an armchair. ‘Yer got a nice place, missus,’ he told her.
She smiled at him as she went over to the sideboard and picked up a small oval-shaped picture frame. ‘That’s my first ’usband,’ she said, handing him the picture.
Broomhead studied the stern face and looked up at the woman. ‘What ’appened to ’im?’ he asked.
‘’E ran orf wiv anuvver woman,’ she said without showing any emotion.
‘I thought yer said yer second ole man ran orf wiv anuvver woman,’ Broomhead queried.
‘They both did, but ’e was a lovely man,’ she said abstractedly, smiling down at the picture.
The totter scratched his head, realising that he was never going to understand the workings of a woman’s mind. ‘Ain’t yer never thought o’ gettin’ married again?’ he asked her.
‘I’ve never give it much thought, ter tell yer the trufe,’ she told him. ‘There’s nobody round ’ere I fancy. A woman ’as ter be sure before she lets a man put ’is boots under ’er bed.’
‘Yer quite right,’ Broomhead replied, sipping his tea. ‘I’m the same in a manner o’ speakin’. I never found a woman I liked enough ter give up me freedom for. I do all me own cookin’, yer know, an’ me washin’. Sometimes it’s ’ard though, luv, but I manage some’ow. I always find time ter read the good book an’ look after me ’orse. I reckon that’s the best cared for ’orse in Bermondsey, although I’m not one fer braggin’.’
The large woman smiled sweetly at him. ‘I fink any woman would be lucky ter find a fish like you,’ she told him. ‘Any man who ’as ter care fer ’imself an’ still finds time ter look after ’is animal an’ read a book as well is got ter be a nice man as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Not any book, missus,’ Broomhead said quickly. ‘I’m talkin’ about the Bible. Oh, yes, I read it nearly every night. That’s if I get me extra chores done in time.’
‘Extra chores?’
‘Well, the extra washin’ an’ ironin’.’
‘What d’yer mean?’ she asked him.
‘I live near an old lady who’s ate up wiv the rheumatics, yer see,’ he lied. ‘I take ’er washin’ in an’ iron it every week. It’s the least yer can do fer a poor ole gel who’s got nobody in the world except ’er cat.’
‘Yer a lovely man, Mr - eh, I don’t know yer name,’ she faltered.
‘It’s Bill Smith, at yer service,’ he grinned.
‘I’m Alice, Alice Johnson, an’ I’m pleased ter know yer,’ she said, holding out her hand.
Broomhead shook her hand and picked up his teacup, his eyes going around the room. ‘’Ow d’yer manage, wiv no man ter care fer yer?’ he asked slyly.
‘Oh, I’ve got a few bob put away, an’ I do a bit o’ charrin’ in the mornin’s,’ she replied. ‘Then there’s me ovver little job.’
‘Ovver little job?’ Broomhead repeated, hoping he did not sound too interested in the woman’s affairs.
‘I work be’ind the bar at the Pig an’ Whistle four nights a week,’ she told him. ‘So yer see I ain’t got ’ardly any money worries really, Bill. Well, not like most round ’ere.’
Broomhead put down his empty teacup. He wanted to stay longer but he had suddenly remembered about his horse. The brake chain was broken and he had forgotten to fix it before he came out that morning. The nag often took it into its head to stroll off on its own and last time it happened he found it four streets away being fed a carrot by a huge woman who slated him for abandoning such a lovely animal.
He got up. ‘Well, it’s bin lovely talkin’ ter yer, Alice,’ he said. ‘I might jus’ come round the Pig an’ Whistle one night fer a drink an’ a chat.’
‘I’m there every Thur
sday night ter Sunday - saloon bar by the way,’ she added quickly.
Broomhead nodded and walked to the front door, feeling slightly disappointed. He had never been in a saloon bar in his life. To him saloon bars of pubs were strictly for the ‘hoi polloi’, his pet name for the snobs and stuck-up people who didn’t want to mix with the likes of him.
When he stepped out into the street Broomhead cursed to himself. The cart had gone! He looked up and down the turning, scratching his head in agitation.
‘Oi, you!’
The totter looked over at the tall, stern figure of Florrie Axford standing at her front door, arms akimbo.
‘Yer ’orse-an’-cart’s jus’ pulled inter Gallo way’s yard,’ she informed him. ‘Yer wanna keep yer eye on it instead o’ leavin’ it wivout the chain on.’
Broomhead mumbled an obscenity under his breath and smiled winsomely at her. ‘It’s broke,’ he said.
‘You’ll be broke if that ’orse does any damage in there,’ she retorted sarcastically.
When Broomhead had retrieved his horse-and-cart and threatened the horse biblically he climbed aboard with a swagger, pondering on his good fortune in meeting Alice Johnson as he rode out of Page Street.
Chapter Fourteen
During the late summer Carrie Bradley realised her ambition at last. Fred finally agreed that they should go ahead with her plan to purchase number 26 Cotton Lane, the empty house next door to their dining rooms. The Bradleys had a meeting with the estate agents, and then without more ado they went to see their bank manager and sat serious-faced as he gave them a long sermon on the practicalities of expanding in business and the pitfalls to watch out for. Carrie chewed on her lip in nervous anticipation and Fred sat holding his cap tightly on his lap while the bank official put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and proceeded to examine their yearly accounts. After what seemed like an eternity to Carrie the manager smiled benignly and told them that he would grant them a loan against the cafe. The young woman felt she wanted to kiss him but she resisted the temptation and turned to her husband instead, elation radiant in her face. Fred responded with a brief smile, feeling a little overawed by it all. He was painfully aware that if they failed to repay the loan then the bank would foreclose on his business.
At the end of October the deal was finally sealed. Carrie immediately set about making arrangements with a firm of local builders which agreed to start work in January, with assurances that their work would cause the minimum of disruption to the normal running of the dining rooms. It was all very exciting, and Carrie felt happy at the way things were going. Rachel was now comfortably settled in the infants school just a few streets away and Annie McCafferty had written to her saying that she was well and that her mother was still bravely fighting her illness. Trade was steady along the waterfront and work went on without any disputes of note. Carrie’s young brother Danny was now walking out with Iris Brody, a pretty girl from nearby Wilson Street, and the two young people seemed very suited, she thought.
In the surrounding backstreets life went on as usual. Sadie Sullivan hummed to herself as she ran a grubby shirt up and down the scrubbing board in her backyard. Her husband Daniel had had two weeks’ solid work on the quay and her family were all doing well, including Billy who had found himself another job at last. Shaun her youngest son was married now, as were the twins Pat and Terry. They all lived nearby and Pat’s wife, Dolly, was expecting her first baby any day now. Only Joe, who was twenty-seven, and Billy, coming up to thirty-four now, were still single and living at home. Joe was courting Sara Flannagan, a Catholic girl from Bacon Street, but Sadie’s eldest son Billy seemed to be happy leading a bachelor life. Sadie remembered how she had once despaired of him, but now that he had managed to get work she was feeling more optimistic that he would finally settle down. He had found a job with a local builder and there was now some colour in his cheeks. The heavy physical labour of mixing cement and carrying hods full of bricks had been very hard at first and his breathing was often troubled, but Billy persevered and found it less of an ordeal as the days went by.
Sadie heard Maisie Dougall calling to her over the wall. She went to the front door to let her in.
‘I mus’ tell yer, Sadie, ’e’s bin in there again this mornin’. I’m sure there’s somefink goin’ on,’ she said in a low voice as soon as she came in.
Sadie could not understand why Maisie found it necessary to whisper in the privacy of her parlour but she listened nevertheless.
‘’E ’ad a tweed jacket wiv a sprig o’ lavender pinned on ’is lapel an’ ’is trousers looked liked they could do wiv an iron shoved over ’em,’ she was going on, ‘but it was ’is boots what made me laugh. They was covered in ’orseshit. ’E ’ad that rotten ole trilby on as well. What that Alice Johnson sees in ’im I’ll never know.’
‘I’m sure there’s somefink wrong wiv ’er,’ Sadie replied. ‘I remember that second ole man runnin’ out o’ the ’ouse an’ ’er chasin’ ’im up the road wiv a chopper. The first ole man left ’er as well, by all accounts. I remember ’im. Nice bloke ’e was. Always give yer the time o’ day. Smart too. She nagged ’im narrer, accordin’ ter Maggie Jones. She used ter live next door to ’er in Conroy Street. Maggie told me Alice was always after the men. It was ’er what used ter ’ave that tally man in fer hours on end while ’er ole man was at work. No wonder ’e pissed orf. My Daniel wouldn’t put up wiv what she did. D’yer know, Mais, she’d come out in the street an’ shout all the bad language she could lay ’er tongue to as ’e was goin’ orf ter work. Bloody shame it was ter see a man put on so.’
‘Well, ole Broom’ead’s got a shock comin’ ’is way,’ Maisie chuckled. ‘Mind yer, ’e might be ’er match. ’E can get ’is tongue round a few choice words as well.’
‘’E’s a dirty ole goat,’ Sadie remarked. ‘I remember that time poor ole Aggie Temple ’ad a go at ’im over ’er cat. ’E really let fly at ’er.’
‘Well, I’d better get back, I’ve got the copper boilin’,’ Maisie said, making for the door. ‘I jus’ popped in ter let yer know, Sadie.’
Further along Page Street in the Galloway yard office Gerry Macedo sat toying with a glass of Scotch whisky, while opposite him George Galloway sat looking hard-faced as he listened. Frank Galloway was very quiet.
‘You invited me over last year to intervene in your troubles, George,’ Macedo said, ‘and now you’re saying you don’t want to join with us on this. I’m sorry but I don’t follow your line of reasoning. All right, there was a slip-up in that Don Jacobs affair last Christmas, but we took care of the Bradleys’ place like we agreed and no one got hurt.’
Galloway was fingering the small gold medallion on his watch chain. ‘Look, Gerry, we’ve known each ovver fer a while now,’ he said slowly. ‘I asked yer over last year ter do a job o’ work an’ yer was well paid fer yer trouble. As it ’appens, fings didn’t work out the way I would ’ave liked. They’re still ’avin’ those meetin’s at the cafe an’ as far as I can make out they’re still well supported. That Jacobs affair only served ter stiffen their resolve. If it ’ad bin done right fings would ’ave bin different. I expected more, Gerry. Yer let me down there.’
Gerry Macedo swallowed the contents of his glass. ‘All right, I take your point, George,’ he replied, ‘but to be fair that was a situation that wasn’t really under our control. This is something much bigger. What I’m putting to you now is a chance for you to come in with us and enjoy the mutual benefits. It’s a good scheme, and believe me, this has not been put together without first looking at all the pitfalls. There’s a consortium in agreement, and there’s big money being put up. If we’re to succeed we need a one hundred per cent backing from the people who count in this neck of the woods. I’m not joking when I say that if you fall in with us, George, you’ll not look back. There’s a lot of money in it for you. I tell you now, when you get to meet the rest of the interested parties you’ll be very surprised indeed. It can’t fail, George. Give it s
ome very serious thought at least, for your own sake.’
George stood up and slipped his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. ‘All right, Gerry, I’ll talk it over wiv Frank an’ we’ll let yer know soon, one way or anuvver,’ he replied.
Macedo got up from his chair and glanced briefly at the younger Galloway as he buttoned up his camel-hair overcoat. ‘You’re either in or out on this one, George. There’s no sitting on the fence,’ he warned.
The East End gang leader’s words sounded like a thinly veiled threat to George Galloway and he blinked as he picked up his glass and swallowed the whisky in one gulp. ‘I can’t afford ter get mixed up wiv all this business at my age, Gerry,’ he said quickly, ‘A few years ago maybe, but now I’m gettin’ too old. I jus’ wanna be allowed ter carry on tradin’ until I finally decide ter pass the business over ter Frank.’
‘Why don’t you do that now, George?’ Macedo asked, glancing quickly at the younger Galloway. ‘You should sit back and take things easy. Young Frank’s a very good manager and he’s certainly got your concern running well, as you’ve already said. We can do business with Frank, providing he’s got the reins. Give him the chance. You should be sitting back a little and enjoying the rest.’
Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 19