Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane

by Harry Bowling

  ‘First blood ter you. Now I’m gonna really do yer,’ Billy growled.

  The impending fight was cut short sharply by Iris’s mother Phyllis, who stepped into the back yard with a pail of water and promptly threw it over the two young men.

  ‘Right now, get inside an’ be’ave yerselves,’ she scolded them. ‘Yer upsettin’ Iris, an’ on ’er weddin’ day too.’

  Annie was sitting next to Carrie in the small parlour and as her bloodied young man walked into the room she shook her head disapprovingly. ‘Billy Sullivan, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ she told him. ‘Just look at your face, and you’re soaking wet. Go and get cleaned up this minute.’

  Billy grinned with embarrassment and then attempted to look stern. ‘I ’ope yer not gonna order me about like that when we’re married, Annie,’ he said with a sly smile.

  ‘If you behave like that I will,’ she replied.

  ‘Yer mean yer will marry me?’ he asked, his face lighting up.

  Annie saw the amusement on Carrie’s face and she struggled to remain serious. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t know if I could put up with all this fighting.’

  Billy left the room to get cleaned up and Carrie turned to her embarrassed friend. ‘If yer ever do marry that feller yer gonna ’ave ter get used ter boxin’, Annie,’ she laughed. ‘An’ if yer lucky enough ter be blessed wiv children an’ they’re boys, yer gonna be ’ard-pressed ter keep ’em out o’ the ring.’

  Annie’s face was anxious. ‘I hope not. I wouldn’t want children of mine to become interested in boxing, Carrie,’ she fretted.

  ‘Tell me, Annie, are yer intendin’ ter marry Billy?’ Carrie asked her.

  Annie looked down at her clasped hands. ‘I love him, Carrie, but Billy’s got this dream. He wants that gymnasium. I think I’m going to lose him before I’ve really got him,’ she said quietly.

  ‘But yer saw Billy’s face when ’e was jokin’ wiv yer a minute ago,’ Carrie said encouragingly. ‘Yer can see ’e wants ter marry yer.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps he does,’ Annie said with a sad smile. ‘But we’d need a place to live and things to buy for the house. Every penny Billy earns he saves to make that gymnasium of his come true. I don’t want him to give up his dreams but he can’t have both, Carrie. It’s just not possible.’

  Carrie squeezed Annie’s arm affectionately. ‘You’ll get married to Billy, an’ ’e’ll get that gymnasium ’e wants so badly. I just know,’ she said.

  The small house was crowded to capacity and people were coming in to take a drink with the newly-weds and offer them their good wishes. The food had all been eaten and as darkness closed over the street the celebrations proper got under way. A huge woman sat at the piano pounding out the latest tunes while Fred Brody accompanied her on the banjo and people got up to dance, constantly treading on the toes of everyone around them. Fred and Vic Brody had been to the pub for more bottles of beer and Billy sat in a corner chatting to Paul, their differences forgotten. Iris Brody went around with sandwiches, and in the back kitchen Grandma Brody sat with her arms folded, her face like thunder at being pushed into second place for once.

  ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ she moaned to Granny Forester. ‘In my day yer said yer vows an’ went orf ter the seaside fer the day, if yer was lucky. Kids terday don’t know what it is ter want. Take our Iris. She’s got a place ter live, an’ they’re goin’ orf ter Brighton fer a couple o’ days.’

  ‘That’s nice fer ’em,’ Granny Forester said wistfully.

  Grandma Brody nodded. ‘They’ve got two rooms next door but one. Mrs Brown let ’em ’ave ’er two upstairs rooms. ’Er lodger won’t want ’em any more.’

  ‘Won’t ’e?’

  ‘Nah. ’E got two years ’ard labour.’

  ‘What did ’e get that for?’ Granny Forester asked.

  ‘A pair o’ shoes.’

  ‘A pair o’ shoes?’

  ‘’S’ right,’ Grandma Brody said. ‘’E walked out o’ Ringleaders in the Ole Kent Road wiv a new pair o’ shoes ’e ’adn’t paid for an’ left ’is old ones in the box.’

  ‘That’s a bit stiff, ain’t it, luv?’ Granny Forester remarked. ‘Two years ’ard labour fer a pair o’ shoes.’

  ‘It was a camel-’air overcoat the previous week, an’ before that it was a bowler ’at. ’E’s bin doin’ it at all the shops. Mrs Brown was tellin’ me the ovver week ’e walked out of a shop wiv a pair o’ stays. Now what does a bloke want wiv a pair o’ stays, I ask yer?’

  ‘P’raps ’e’s a bit funny,’ Granny Forester suggested. ‘Mrs Coleman’s ole man wore stays.’

  ‘Yeah, but Bertie Coleman wore stays ter keep ’is back straight. ’E was a doorman at the Savoy. Why the silly git should walk out of a shop wiv a pair o’ stays I’ll never know.’

  ‘I bet those rooms of ’is were stuffed full o’ fings,’ Granny Forester remarked eagerly.

  ‘Yer couldn’t move in there fer stuff,’ Grandma Brody told her. ‘The police found a load o’ clothes, shoes an’ ties. They even found women’s underwear in there, an’ yer know what else they found? A tailor’s dummy. One o’ them fings yer see in the smart shops wiv dresses on. The copper come out wiv it under ’is arm, would yer mind. I was standin’ at the street door at the time an’ I didn’t know where ter put me face. “Can’t yer cover that fing up?” I ses ter the copper. “Why, luv, it ain’t all that cold,” ’e ses ter me. One o’ them there saucy gits ’e was. Anyway they shoved all the stuff in the police van an’ carted it orf. That’s ’ow Mrs Brown’s lodger come ter get two years ’ard labour.’

  ‘Dear, oh dear,’ Granny Forester sighed.

  On the same day and at the same time that Danny Tanner and Iris Brody were married another wedding took place in Bermondsey, but it was kept secret from the neighbours. Alice Johnson was married to William Nehemiah Smith at the Bermondsey Register office and then the couple departed to Clacton-on-Sea for a week’s honeymoon. Broomhead sat next to Alice on the train and worried about his horse, his neglected business, and above all his liberty. He was sixty years old, the same age as Alice, and for all of his adult years Broomhead had enjoyed his freedom. As he watched the fields flash by from the carriage window he recalled how his friends would often say to him that one day he would be captured by a scheming female but he had laughed at them. He had had his chances by the score but he had never believed that at long last he really would marry. Well, there was no sense in crying over spilt milk, he told himself. Alice was a presentable woman who cooked him nice meals and washed his clothes. She was very fond of his horse, and she had a few shillings tucked away. She also had a cosy house which was much better than his grimy, leaking hovel, for which he struggled to find the rent. The only thing he would have to watch out for was her jealousy, he realised. Alice was a very possessive woman who could be dangerous when roused. She had terrorised two husbands and if he was not careful he would find himself in the same boat. Broomhead Smith considered himself to be a shrewd character, however, and he felt that he was going to manage quite well, providing he was very careful.

  Alice Johnson leaned back in her carriage seat and sighed contentedly. Bill was a good man, and very active for his age she thought, smiling secretly. He would have to be careful with those boots of his though. She was not going to have horse dung trodden all over her best carpet. He would have to smarten himself up on the rounds too. She was not going to have people talking about how scruffy her husband was. He could be smart, though. He looked smart now in his grey suit, she thought to herself.

  ‘It looks cold out there,’ Broomhead said, breaking the silence.

  ‘It does, dear. Never mind, we can snuggle up tergevver ternight, can’t we?’ Alice said with a naughty smile on her face.

  He nodded, looking serious, and then after a few moments, ‘Alice?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Alice, yer do fink everyfing’s gonna be all right, don’t yer?’

 
; ‘Of course, dear.’

  ‘Alice, I’m feelin’ a bit worried.’

  ‘Everyfing’s gonna be fine, Bill. There’s no need ter worry.’

  ‘S’posin’ somefing goes wrong?’

  ‘Don’t be a silly-billy. Nuffink’s gonna go wrong. We’re sensible.’

  ‘My pal Smudger ain’t though. If ’e gets pissed the ’orse won’t get fed.’

  Chapter Twenty

  In the Bradleys’ dining rooms the windows were running with condensation and the floor was wet and muddy from the constant comings and goings. The place was gaily decorated with balloons and paper chains for the festive season, nevertheless, and there was the usual small Christmas tree standing in a tub in the far corner. Bessie was busy in the kitchen alongside Fred while Carrie worked ceaselessly serving the dockers and carmen, and an extra group of labourers who were employed on the new wharf being erected a short way downriver. Lizzie and Marie were very courteous and helpful to the customers, mindful perhaps that the Christmas box had been put up on the counter.

  Carrie had no time to think of the shopping trip she was going to make the following day and as she wiped the sweat from her brow Sharkey Morris walked into the cafe accompanied by his old friend Soapy. Sharkey looked cold and miserable as he raised a wan smile and Carrie’s heart went out to him. He was now nearing sixty-five and being retired. Even though he had told her only a week or two ago that the job was getting too much for him Carrie knew that he was going to miss his work. He had said that there might be a nightwatchman’s job going at the stables where he worked but he was not very hopeful of getting it. Sharkey had formerly worked at the Galloway stables for many years and Carrie remembered all the times he had given her a lift on his cart whenever he saw her in the street on her way home from school. She had never forgotten that it was he who let her father know of the job going at Fred’s cafe, and it was he who kept his eye on her at the very beginning. Sharkey was the salt of the earth, she felt. Always cheerful and friendly, always ready to help out in whatever way he could. She remembered how he and Soapy had moved her family to Bacon Buildings with his horse-and-cart. Soapy would miss him too, she knew. The two men were almost inseparable. They always seemed able to meet at the dining rooms for their break and she had never heard a cross word pass between them.

  ‘’Ow are yer, boys? Yer look cold, Sharkey,’ Carrie remarked.

  The long, lean carman shook his head slowly and Soapy put his hand fondly on his friend’s shoulder. ‘’E’s a bit upset, Carrie,’ he told her. ‘This is Sharkey’s last day at work. They’re puttin’ ’im orf termorrer. Sharkey’s missus ain’t too good eivver. She’s laid up in bed wiv shingles.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sharkey. Give ’er my love, won’t yer?’ Carrie said sympathetically.

  ‘I’m finishin’ up next year,’ Soapy informed her. ‘Age is catchin’ up wiv us all, gel.’

  ‘’Ere we are. Two nice mugs o’ sweet tea. This is on the ’ouse,’ she told them.

  The two carmen took their seats and although Carrie was kept busy she could not help stealing glances at the two old friends. She was aware that like many of her regular customers they often made lengthy detours to visit the cafe. It would be nice if she could think of some way to show her appreciation for their loyalty, she thought.

  Soapy Symonds had found a paper hat from somewhere and he was sitting quietly in his bench seat sipping his tea with the hat perched askew on his head.

  ‘Look at that silly bleeder,’ Bessie remarked as she came out of the kitchen to help at the counter. ‘’E finks it’s a party.’

  ‘That’s it! We’ll ’ave a party,’ Carrie said, smiling at the puzzled woman. She went straight out into the kitchen to see her husband.

  ‘Fred, I wanna ’ave a party.’

  ‘A what?’ he asked.

  ‘I wanna ’ave a party ’ere termorrer fer Sharkey,’ Carrie told him.

  Fred was busy rolling dough and he looked up at her as though she had taken leave of her senses. ‘Did I ’ear yer right?’ he asked her.

  Carrie sat down on the stool beside him and told him how sad she was for the old carman. Fred had known the man for a considerable number of years and his hard look softened as Carrie explained what she intended to do.

  ‘Well, as long as yer can manage it. Remember it’s the last openin’ day an’ there’ll be a lot o’ customers in an’ out,’ he reminded her.

  Carrie hurried out of the kitchen and caught Soapy’s eye. ‘Can yer give us an ’and, Soapy?’ she asked, winking quickly at him. ‘Fred can’t lift. ’E’s ’urt ’is back.’

  ‘Lazy ole goat,’ Soapy joked as he walked around the counter, leaving Sharkey staring balefully at his mug of tea.

  When Carrie had finished explaining what she wanted him to do Soapy suddenly leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Yer a good lass. ’E’ll be really touched by yer kindness, ’ he said. ‘Jus’ leave it ter me. I’ll make sure ’e comes in. They’re payin’ ’im orf at nine o’clock an’ there’s no carts out termorrer.’

  At midday on Christmas Eve Billy Sullivan sat facing Danny Tanner in the Kings Arms. He was puzzled by the mysterious attitude of his old friend. ‘Yer say yer ole man wants ter see me?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Why, Danny? I ain’t upset ’im ’ave I?’

  ‘Gawd knows,’ Danny replied, sipping his beer and struggling to keep a straight face.

  ‘What’s ’e wanna see me for? Surely ’e told yer?’ Billy asked.

  ‘’E didn’t say nuffink ter me,’ Danny told him. ‘P’raps it’s about yer makin’ a fool of yerself at the weddin’. Joe Brody’s a pal o’ my ole man an’ ’e might ’ave wanted ter pass a message on.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t ’e give you the message if that’s the case?’ Billy queried.

  ‘I s’pose ’e was worried in case I took yer part,’ Danny said, ‘though I don’t know why I should. Yer really upset the apple-cart, didn’t yer? Iris thought yer was gonna ’urt ’er bruvvers an’ Annie was gettin’ all worried in case you got ’urt. Bloody ’ell, Billy, yer gettin’ too old fer fightin’. Yer should fink of Annie now. She’s a good gel an’ yer really lucky ter get somebody like ’er.’

  Billy looked down at his glass. ‘Yer right, Danny. I don’t deserve ’er. I’ll make it up to ’er though, you see if I don’t. I’m gonna turn over a new leaf. No more fightin’ - unless I’m provoked, mind - an’ no more gettin’ inter trouble. I’m gonna be a changed man from now on - well, after Christmas anyway.’

  At that moment William Tanner walked into the public bar and looked around. Danny got up and walked over to him and Billy watched father and son as they stood at the counter waiting to be served. Eventually they came over to the table and Danny placed one of the drinks he was carrying down in front of Billy.

  ‘There’s a couple o’ my workmates standin’ at the counter an’ I’m gonna ’ave a chat wiv ’em while yer sortin’ out yer business,’ he said, giving Billy a meaningful look as he walked away from the table.

  By now Billy Sullivan felt he must have done something terrible to warrant Danny’s father coming in the pub especially to see him.

  William sat down and sipped his drink, looking as though he was in no hurry to begin a conversation, then he folded his arms and leant forward on the table. ‘I was ’avin’ a chat ter Joe Maitland about yer, Billy,’ he began.

  ‘Was yer?’ Billy said.

  ‘I was tellin’ ’im all about yer boxin’ an’ ’ow yer . . .’

  ‘I was only playin’, Will,’ Billy cut in. ‘There was no ’arm intended. I’m sorry Iris got upset about it, but as I explained ter Danny . . .’

  ‘It’s nuffink ter do wiv the weddin’,’ William said with a mischievous smile. ‘It don’t concern ’im anyway. Nah, I was tellin’ Joe some time ago about ’ow yer bin wantin’ to open up a gym fer the young boxers round ’ere fer years an’ I asked ’im if ’e knew of any spare sites that might be goin’ a bit cheap. Maitland’s got a lot o’ contacts, yer
see. Well, ’e’s managed ter find a bit o’ land an’ ’e’s been makin’ enquiries ter see if ’e can get it on a long-term lease. Anyway, ’e told me yesterday ’e wants ter talk ter yer about it after Christmas.’

  Billy’s face lit up for an instant, then he sagged back in his chair. ‘Well, it’s really good of yer ter fink of me, Will,’ he replied. ‘But yer see, me an’ Annie McCafferty are plannin’ on gettin’ married, soon as I can find a place fer us ter live, an’ yer know what it’s like when yer get married. There’s fings ter buy fer the ’ouse, an’ . . .’

  Will held up his hands to stop him. ‘In the first place it was Danny who asked me if I’d approach Joe Maitland for yer. Joe wants yer ter pop round an’ see ’im after Christmas. There’s ’is address,’ he said, passing Billy a slip of notepaper. ‘Go round an’ see ’im anyway. Jus’ tell ’im why yer can’t take up ’is offer. ’E’s a nice bloke is Joe.’