Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane

by Harry Bowling

‘She’s fine. Come an’ see ’er, she’s boilin’ a kettle.’

  The Tanners and their daughter Carrie sat with Joe in the little parlour sipping tea. ‘Danny’s two boys are gettin’ big an’ Billy Sullivan’s married wiv three kids now,’ Nellie told him eagerly.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he laughed. ‘Carrie kept me supplied wiv all the news.’

  ‘Galloway left Page Street. ’E’s got a big yard now in Wilson Street,’ Nellie went on, to Joe’s amusement and William’s irritation.

  ‘Joe’s jus’ told yer that Carrie’s bin keepin’ ’im up wiv the news, Nellie. Go an’ put the kettle on again,’ William urged her.

  Nellie had noticed the way Carrie looked at Joe and she felt sure that there had been something going on between them. ‘What’s yer plans, Joe?’ she asked, ignoring her husband.

  Joe looked quickly at Carrie and then he stared down at his empty cup for a few moments. ‘I gotta get some lodgin’s an’ then I’ll decide what I’m gonna do,’ he told her. ‘I might go back ter Stepney. It’s bin a long while but I’ve still got a few good mates over the water.’

  Nellie saw the glance Carrie had given Joe and the disappointment on her face, and she knew then that she had been right. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said quickly.

  ‘There’s no need ter rush orf, Joe,’ William remarked, glancing quickly at his daughter. ‘Carrie can fix yer up in ’er spare room. Yer can ’ave a bath in front o’ the fire an’ I’ve got a shirt yer can borrer fer the time bein’.’

  Carrie felt that she could have kissed her father. ‘P’raps Joe would sooner not,’ she cut in, hoping she had said the right thing.

  ‘As long as Carrie don’t mind,’ Joe replied.

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ she said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.

  ‘Right, that settles it then. I’ll go an’ light the copper. It’ll take a good couple of hours,’ William said, giving Carrie a glance which spoke volumes.

  Billy Sullivan sat in the Kings Arms with Danny Tanner, his face grimy from the day’s toil. ‘I’m worried, Danny,’ he said, sipping his pint. ‘They’ve told us when this job’s finished there’s no more work. If it don’t pick up we’ll all be laid orf.’

  ‘Fings are bad on the river too,’ Danny replied, looking gloomily around at the few customers standing at the bar. ‘There’s no new ships in. I’ve only ’ad two days’ work this week.’

  Billy leaned back in his chair and followed Danny’s gaze. ‘I’ve seen this pub a lot more busy than this, Danny boy. I reckon everybody round ’ere’s on short time.’

  ‘’Ow’s the site goin’?’ Danny asked, picking up his pint again.

  Billy’s face brightened. ‘We’ve got the foundations down an’ the bricks are comin’ next week,’ he said. ‘I’ve gotta get some volunteers ter get ’em stacked. Farvver Murphy’s gonna see what ’e can do but we’ll need plenty of ’ands.’

  Danny had noticed Wally Walburton walk in accompanied by his long-time friend Tubby Abrahms. The two had gone up to the bar and they glanced over at Billy, who had not seen them.

  ‘When’s the bricks comin’?’ Danny asked, trying to keep his friend’s attention.

  ‘Next Tuesday,’ Billy replied. ‘Farvver Murphy persuaded ’em ter leave it till as late as possible. We can get more volunteers that way. Mind yer though, the way fings are goin’ we’ll ’ave no trouble. ’Alf the people round ’ere’ll be ’angin’ around on the street corners the way the work’s goin’.’

  Wally Walburton sidled over with Tubby Abrahms following behind. ‘I see the foundations are down,’ he said, slipping his thumbs into his braces. ‘Tubby was tellin’ me yer bin recruitin’ volunteers.’

  Billy did not look at him. ‘That’s right,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Who yer got, the church choir?’ Wally said sarcastically.

  Billy looked up at the bulky young man. ‘Well, they’d be a sight better than you two,’ he growled. ‘I would ’ave asked yer both ter give us an ’and but yer wouldn’t last five minutes. It’s ’ard work unloadin’ bricks.’

  ‘I’d stan’ the pace better than anybody you could put up,’ Tubby cut in.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Billy replied, grinning at Danny.

  ‘I tell yer what we’ll do,’ Wally said quickly. ‘Me an’ Tubby against any two you can put up. Loser stands a round o’ drinks.’

  ‘Righto, Wally, yer on,’ Billy said, holding out his hand.

  Once the yard had been bolted up for the night Carrie placed the large tin bath in front of the banked-up fire. Joe passed back and forth from the scullery with pails of steaming hot water, and at last the bath was ready. He glanced at Carrie as he unbuttoned his shirt and she averted her eyes. ‘While yer ’avin’ yer bath I’ll cook some eggs an’ bacon,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve put a clean towel on the chair wiv the soap. I’ll give yer a shout when the tea’s ready.’

  ‘Will yer scrub me back?’ he asked.

  ‘Call me when yer’ve got in,’ she said, feeling her face getting hot under his gaze.

  Joe smiled as he peeled off his shirt and when Carrie had left the room he stripped and climbed into the bath. The water was soothingly hot and after a few minutes soaking he stood up and soaped himself all over with Lifebuoy, revelling in the luxury of an unhurried bath. When he had sat down in the water once more he called out to Carrie, and as she came into the room he could see that she was aroused. Her face was flushed and she had let her long fair hair down and tied it with a black ribbon. He could see quite clearly too that she had removed her bodice and he noticed that her small firm breasts were taut, with her nipples standing out against the fabric. She came over to him and without saying a word took the soap from his hand and gently rubbed it over his back. He could hear her breathing and he felt the gentle rubbing becoming more like a caress. He turned his head towards her and she suddenly leaned over him and put her lips against his. He reached his arm round and pulled her down to him and she slipped sideways into the bath, her dress riding up around her thighs. Their kiss was long and sensuous, her tongue searching his, her breath coming fast, and he could feel her hands seeking him beneath the soapy water.

  Suddenly she brought her legs down on the floor and pulled herself from the bath, still holding on to one of his hands, urging him up. Joe rose from the water and stepped out of the bath, grasping her and pulling her to him. Carrie felt his kisses on her neck and throat, her face and open lips. She moved away from him, deliberately pressing his hands against the front of her sopping blouse. He slowly undid each button, his eyes never leaving hers, and then he reached down to her long, slender skirt. As it dropped to the floor Joe saw she was completely naked. Carrie closed her eyes as she lowered herself backwards across the table, her feet still resting on the floor. He leaned over her, his mouth going down to her nipples, and then she sighed deeply and gave a little groan as she felt him enter her. All the waiting, all the long, lonely and empty nights were forgotten as she moved with him, together in a fantasy of love.

  Father Murphy had been very busy organising the charity committee and to the whole family’s delight the charity came to be known simply as ‘Sullivans’. The ageing priest had contacted the brick company in Bedford and on Tuesday at four o’clock the first supply of bricks arrived in Wilson Street. Billy had been put off work that Monday and on Tuesday Danny had finished early. Both men had stood waiting on the corner of Wilson Street since early afternoon and later they were joined by two hefty young men whom Father Murphy had conscripted. It was not long before Wally and his friend Tubby turned up. When the lorry drove into the site and squealed to a halt Wally took off his coat despite the cold and rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing his muscular arms. Tubby took off his coat too and stood shivering beside the lorry while the driver lowered the sides of the vehicle.

  ‘Right then,’ Billy said, spitting on his hands. ‘We work in three teams. We’ve gotta pack the bricks in piles around the site so as ter make it easier fer the bricklayers.
No chucking the bricks, they’ve got ter be stacked neatly. Right, when yer ready.’

  Tubby and Wally started off carrying eight bricks at a time as they ran from the lorry to place the first of them at the far end of the concrete base, and soon they were gasping for breath. Billy and Danny worked at a steady pace each carrying six bricks, and soon their twin piles had grown. The other two volunteers had clambered on to the lorry and were placing the bricks ready for the two teams. The cold afternoon was forgotten as sweat soaked the competitors’ faces and necks, and by the time two equal stacks had been completed the four men were panting hard. Tubby was finding it difficult to keep up with the much stronger and fitter Wally and he was being subjected to a string of abuse by his friend, who could see the chance of a free pint and the acclaim that would go with it disappearing. The driver was beginning to feel that the volunteers had been recruited from the local lunatic asylum but he was pleased that the load was disappearing quickly off his vehicle.

  Danny was feeling the strain on his arms and Billy was fighting for his breath but they were outstripping Wally and Tubby. Their second stack of bricks was almost completed and they had taken a clear lead. Tubby had by now come to the end of his tether. He slumped down on the kerbside and fought for his breath, unable to rise despite Wally’s coaxing. He watched as his friend ran back and forth across the wide concrete base carrying the bricks, his face red with exertion and his breath coming in gasps. Suddenly Billy dropped the bricks he was carrying and held up his hands to their lone opponent. ‘Wally, I gotta ’and it ter yer,’ he said, rubbing his sore and bleeding palms. ‘Yer’d kill yerself before yer gave up the chance of a free pint. Well, as far as I’m concerned yer’ve earned it. Now let’s take it easy. What d’yer say?’

  Wally spat on his sore hands and rubbed them together, then with a huge grin he held out his hand to the young Sullivan. Danny meanwhile had slumped down on the kerbside next to Tubby. ‘C’mon, mate, on yer feet,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the rest o’ the load off the lorry an’ we’ll go fer a pint.’

  One hour later six tired and aching volunteers walked wearily to the Kings Arms and slumped down over the bar counter. Without asking for the orders Alec Crossley pulled on the beer pump and filled six pint glasses with his best ale, placing them down in front of the exhausted men. Billy reached into his pocket but Alec waved the money away. ‘It’s all right, lad,’ he said cheerily. ‘Farvver Murphy’s bin in. The drinks are on ’im.’

  George Galloway leaned forward in his office chair and rested the palms of his hands on the silver handle of his cane walking stick. His face was furious and his eyes bulged as he glared at his son.

  ‘Yer could ’ave told me,’ he raged. ‘First fing I ’eard on Sunday mornin’ was that rabble passin’ under me winder. Ole Jackley ’ad ter call the police. Then I come in ’ere an’ see bloody great posters stuck on the walls outside.’

  Frank was equally irate. ‘I had a protest group camp under my window!’ he shouted. ‘They were carrying banners saying “Down with slum landlords”. How do you think I felt?’

  ‘Well, why didn’t yer try ter talk ter the Bolshie mares?’ George growled. ‘Yer could ’ave stopped it if yer’d called the police. They ’ad no right ter come in this yard wiv their petition.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you propose to do about it, but unless something’s done we’re going to be plagued with them,’ Frank replied, pacing the office.

  The first of the lorries drove in and Frank Galloway looked through the office window. ‘Good God! Look at that!’ he exclaimed.

  The older man got up and walked to the window, then he banged his walking stick down with temper. ‘Get the driver ter wash that orf!’ he raved.

  The driver had jumped down from his cab and was crossing the yard. His hair was matted and there was a gluey mess down the front of his boiler suit. ‘I’ve never seen anyfing like it, Mr Galloway,’ he said agitatedly. ‘There was I parked outside Mark Brown’s Wharf when I spotted this crowd o’ lunatics. One of ’em started ter paste the side o’ the lorry while I was sittin’ there. Well, I went ter jump down, but I couldn’t open the door. The gits ’ad tied the door ’andles tergevver. I see this big woman pastin’ that poster on the side an’ I shouted out, an’ she give me a load of abuse a docker wouldn’t use. All I could do was try ter get through the winder but as I lowered it she chucked the pail o’ gum all over me. I’ll never get this out o’ me ’air.’

  Frank Galloway shook his head slowly. ‘All right, Tom, scrape that poster off then get off home,’ he said. ‘I’d better phone the police.’

  George Galloway was searching through his desk drawer when Frank walked back into the office. ‘Where’s that bloody repair book got to?’ he moaned.

  Frank sat down and sighed loudly. ‘I’ve been through the list of repairs needed. Ten ceilings, four sinks, two coppers, and God knows how many roof slates. It’ll cost a small fortune.’

  ‘Not if I find that bloody book,’ George Galloway scowled.

  ‘What do you need that for?’ Frank asked irritably.

  ‘’Cos it’s got Alf Comber’s address in it,’ George replied. ‘I got ’im ter do the last lot o’ repairs. ’E’s a bit of a bodger but ’e’s the cheapest by far.’

  The younger Galloway shook his head in despair. ‘You’re not getting that drunken old sot to do those repairs, are you?’ he asked, staring at his father. ‘I remember the last time you got him in. We had the tenants over complaining that he’d caused more damage than he’d repaired. If you’re going to spend money on those Page Street houses why don’t you get a reputable firm in? If the work’s done properly we can put a couple of shillings on the rent.’

  George had found the repair book and was flipping through the pages. ‘’Ere we are. Forty-five Eagle Street,’ he said suddenly, ignoring Frank’s argument. ‘I’ll call roun’ ter see ’im soon as I can. In the meantime, Frank, you go roun’ an’ see that ole witch Axford. Tell ’er I’m gettin’ the repair man in, but only when ’er Bolshie friends stop their bloody caper. Don’t take no ole lip orf ’er neivver. Put the fear o’ Gawd inter the ole cow if she starts. Tell ’er she can be evicted fer causin’ trouble.’

  Frank Galloway gave his father a wicked look. It’s about time he retired, he thought. Every time the silly old fool comes into the yard he causes disruption. Now he wants me to tidy up his dirty work. I don’t know why he doesn’t call round to the tenants himself.

  George was staring thoughtfully at the papers on his desk, his fingers caressing the gold medallion hanging from the chain on his waistcoat, then suddenly he took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. ‘It’s early yet. Why don’t yer pop roun’ an’ see that Axford woman right now?’ he said.

  Frank got up from his chair just as the phone rang. He picked up the receiver. George watched his son’s reaction as he tried to get a word in. It was obvious that the caller was angry.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right. I’ll take care of it. Yes, of course. Leave it to me, and thank you. Goodbye, Mr Blackmore,’ Frank said angrily.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ George asked.

  ‘That was Brockway’s,’ Frank replied, slumping down in his chair. ‘Our lorry’s unloading there, and the managing director’s walked in and created merry hell. There are posters stuck all over the vehicle. He’s threatened to cancel the contract if we send another lorry there in that state.’

  George banged his fist down on the desk. ‘Get round an’ see Axford right away,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll go an’ see Peter Brockway meself.’

  After Frank had left, the elder Galloway reached into the drawer and took out a bottle of Scotch. Once fortified, he walked out to his trap which was standing just inside the gate. He climbed into the contraption and picked up the reins, pulling on them to force the pony around towards the entrance, and as the trap drew out of the yard into the street the poster could be seen clearly on the rear of the coachwork: ‘Down with Slum Landlords’.

  Chapter Twenty
-Eight

  1932 dawned with little prospect of work for the many folk in the riverside borough who had been made redundant before Christmas. Many more were on short time as the factories’ orders fell and money became scarce. The river trade was experiencing its worst spell for many years and hungry workers hung about the streets or travelled to other boroughs seeking work. Carrie Bradley, however, had been fortunate in winning another contract, and it was one which gave her much satisfaction. Brockway Leather Factors had decided that the cartage rates they were paying to the Galloway firm were too high, considering that on two occasions the vehicles supplied to them appeared to be advertising for the British Communist Party. Most of Brockway’s output was destined for the local railway freight depots and the management felt that it would be prudent to hire the less expensive horse transport. With dropping orders for their goods and the prospects for any improvement looking very grim, the firm of leather factors decided to cut their costs and obtain the services of Bradleys’ Cartage Contractors, whose hire rates were very reasonable.