The evening was wearing on and Joe had become drunk. The woman with the fur coat had left the pub with a Dutch seaman but she was back now, still showing an interest in the good-looking man who was lolling against the bar, moodily contemplating his near-empty glass. He had looked over at her a few times, trying to focus his eyes on her, and she decided he was ready. She ambled over and with a big smile took his arm.
‘I fink yer need a little company, dearie,’ she said in a low voice.
Joe smiled crookedly. ‘I-I jus’ wanna be, I wanna be . . .’
The street woman pulled on his arm, half dragging him to the door, and as she struggled out of the pub still holding on to him a hefty young man in a cap swigged the remains of his drink and followed her out.
‘C’mon, luvvy, roun’ the corner. We can do it roun’ the corner,’ she said, glancing behind her to see if her accomplice was there.
Joe suddenly felt sick, his only concern at that moment to break free from the woman and her overpowering perfume. He pulled against her arm but then suddenly his other arm was taken and he found himself being almost carried into an alley. His instinct told him he was in mortal danger and he let his body go limp, for a moment catching the two off balance. The woman stumbled and fell to her knees cursing loudly but the man swung him round and hit him hard in the pit of his stomach. The excruciating pain sent Joe falling in a huddle with his legs drawn up tightly over his stomach. Suddenly he was lying there untouched as his assailant fell beside him and received a kick full in his face. The woman screamed as she was slapped hard across the face and thrown out of the alley. Her accomplice was bundled to his feet and whacked with a barrage of blows to his face and body, pummelling him into a crumpled heap. The two rescuers picked Joe up and pushed him against the wall while they brushed him down and straightened his tie. ‘There yer are, me ole mate, yer look nearly presentable,’ one said, laughing loudly.
Joe had been in a drunken haze but now he was cold sober, though still unsteady on his legs and feeling sick from the blow to his stomach. He had been vaguely aware of the attentions being paid to him and suddenly pushed the men away and staggered out of the alley, hearing their loud laughter behind him. He walked on until he was in the main thoroughfare and then he stopped beneath a gaslamp to gather himself.
His watch had gone, and his signet ring. So had his wallet. Joe smiled ruefully to himself. He had been the victim of the bundlers, hard, ruthless young men who frequented the dock area of East London and preyed on the sort of situation he had found himself in. The bundlers not only robbed the prostitutes and their pimps but also the women’s customers too, usually by pretending to aid and assist the unfortunate.
Joe looked around him to make sure he was not being observed then reached beneath his waistcoat and felt the small bulge in his money belt. Well, they were going to be disappointed when they opened the wallet, he thought, smiling to himself. Knowledge of the area and an awareness of just those sort of incidents had made him very careful. He never had more than the price of a few pints in his wallet, but wearing the ring and the watch had been a mistake. He would be more careful next time, he vowed as he walked off towards the welcoming lights of a pub he knew well.
Late that night Joe arrived home and staggered through the wicket-gate into the yard. Carrie had left the gate open until he arrived home and as she met him in the passage he fell into her arms, totally inebriated. She looked at him with disgust as she dragged him bodily into an easychair and proceeded to loosen his tie and undo his shirt buttons. When she had taken off his shoes and placed his feet up on a chair, she threw a blanket over him and turned out the gaslight.
The week before Christmas Billy and his old friend sat together in the Kings Arms. ‘I’ve managed the kids’ presents an’ I’ve got a shawl fer Annie,’ he said, sipping his pint.
‘Yeah, I’ve got my two their presents but I ain’t got nuffink fer Iris yet,’ Danny replied. ‘I’ve got the large amount of tuppence in me pocket an’ that’s gotta do till pay day.’
‘Well, that’s tuppence more than I’ve got,’ Billy chuckled. ‘These two pints cleaned me out.’
The two men sat sipping their pints slowly, trying to make them last while they continued their chat. Each had bought a round and they both knew that it was the last time they would be able to go into the pub before Christmas. There was still much to buy and little money forthcoming.
‘I see the brickwork’s all finished,’ Danny remarked cheerfully.
Billy smiled. ‘Yeah, it looks good, don’t yer fink?’
‘What about the roof?’ Danny asked.
‘That’ll ’ave ter wait,’ Billy told him. ‘There’s no more money in the kitty an’ it’ll cost a pretty penny. It seems a shame now it’s comin’ on so well, but it can’t be ’elped.’
‘Maybe yer should talk ter the Borough Council or the big firms,’ Danny suggested. ‘They might chip in a few bob.’
Billy shook his head. ‘Farvver Murphy’s already bin aroun’ wiv the beggin’-bowl. Some o’ the firms put in an’ the Council gave ’im a grant terwards it but the foundations an’ pipes an’ the bricks took all the money.’
‘Never mind, the collections might start comin’ in again once Christmas is over,’ Danny remarked hopefully.
‘I s’pose so,’ Billy said, looking at his near-empty glass of ale. ‘We gotta be fankful fer small mercies. Farvver Murphy’s done all ’e could. ’E’s bin a diamond.’
Danny finished his pint. ‘Well I’d better get orf ’ome,’ he said. ‘Iris wants me ter keep an eye on the kids ternight. She’s ’elpin’ out at the church wiv the Christmas parcels fer the old folk.’
‘Yeah, they’re doin’ the same at our church,’ Billy said. ‘Annie was gonna go but I put me foot down. She ain’t bin too good carryin’ this one. The doctor’s already told ’er she’s gotta take it easy.’
The two friends left the pub and Billy turned towards Jamaica Road. ‘I’ll see yer termorrer, Danny. I jus’ wanna take anuvver look at the gym,’ he said grinning.
Father Murphy put down his pen and grimaced as he rubbed his clenched fist up and down his chest. For a few moments he sat staring at the row of dusty books on the wall facing him then he reached into his desk drawer and took out a bottle of brandy and a tumbler. The old priest afforded himself a smile as he poured a liberal measure of the spirit into the glass and downed it in one swig, then he dropped his head into his hands to rest his tired eyes. All of the new batch of letters had been finished and the weekly report to the Sullivans Charity Committee was compiled and signed. The notes for the morning service had been completed and there was just one other task to take care of. For a time the old priest sat with his face buried in his hands, and then with a sigh he raised his head, blinked a few times to clear his eyes and picked up the pen again.
Father Murphy wrote in a clear, concise hand and for a time the pen moved briskly back and forth across the paper. Occasionally he stopped and studied what he had written, then he carried on to the bottom of the sheet. With his head held askew the priest signed the letter with a flourish, and after reading the whole page through he folded the sheet and sealed it in an envelope. The pain was coming again, and this time he did not go to his desk drawer.
Christmas was a very quiet time for the Tanners. Both Nellie and William were still feeling the effects of their bad bout of bronchitis and Carrie felt exhausted after her hectic few weeks. Joe was very subdued, and after returning from the pub on Christmas morning and sitting down to the festive meal with the Tanner family he went to his room and slept. He had given Carrie money to buy presents for everyone and she had wrapped them up herself and placed them under the small Christmas tree in the parlour. Nellie and William both had slippers and Rachel had a beautiful dress of emerald green which she insisted upon wearing on Christmas night. The dress was high in the neck with ruched sleeves, trimmed with white lace at the cuffs and bodice, and it reached down to just above her ankles and swished as she spun a
round. Carrie had taken care in choosing it and it complemented the child’s natural beauty.
Joe had given Carrie a small package and when she opened it her face lit up. It was a gold locket which had a tiny ruby set in the centre of the chasing. It was secured to a thin gold chain and on the back of the locket an inscription read, ‘To Carrie from Joe with love’.
‘I was gonna ask ’em ter put “sorry” instead,’ Joe said, smiling humbly.
Carrie kissed him on the cheek and asked him to put it on for her, and as he did so she could feel his hands shaking.
Rachel was pleased that Joe was around during Christmas and she hung around him as much as possible, holding on to his every word and giggling whenever he joked with her or paid her any sort of attention. Carrie had noticed the love Rachel had for him and it caused her pain. She could not help thinking that the rift between herself and Joe was widening and that Christmas would prove to be merely a time for hiding true feelings. Joe would leave their home soon, she felt sure, and Rachel would miss him desperately. He had given her fatherly love in a way that Fred had never been able to. Joe had joked with her, listened patiently to her childish chatter and become her good friend. With her father it had been different. Fred had seemed incapable of demonstrating his feelings of love for his daughter, though his adoration for her could clearly be seen in his eyes. Rachel needed to be held close and hugged and kissed. She had so much love to give, and with her father she had never really been able to express the tender feelings inside her. With Joe the child could be her natural self, but she never overwhelmed him with her affection. It was the little things that Carrie noticed: their little hug after the goodnight kiss, and the tender moments during their light-hearted chats together when Rachel would sit at his feet and lean her head against his leg while he gently stroked her hair.
Carrie hoped Joe would pay her some attention and come to her room when the house was quiet. She lay awake until the early hours, tossing and turning, desperately needing his arms around her. She heard the sound of late revellers as they passed by and then the wind rattling the windows. She heard Joe cough once or twice, the sound of her parents turning over in bed upstairs, and twisted on to her back and stared up at the dark ceiling. For a time Carrie lay there, trying to let her body settle down to sleep, but the release from her worries and need would not come, and finally she climbed out of her bed and slipped on her warm dressing robe. Gently she tiptoed from the room into the passage and carefully opened the door to Joe’s room. She could hear his heavy breathing and the grunt as he suddenly twisted over. There beside his bed was a half-empty bottle of whisky. She could smell the fumes from the doorway, and with a deep sigh of resignation she slipped quietly back to her own room and buried her head in the pillow.
Christmas was a solemn time at St Joseph’s Church. On Christmas Eve Father Murphy died in his sleep. On the mantelshelf in his study there was a sealed letter addressed to Billy Sullivan and on Christmas morning the young Father Kerrigan came to the Sullivan home to break the sorrowful news, bringing the letter with him. St Joseph’s Church was packed to capacity for the Christmas morning mass as everyone who knew the old priest came to pay their respects. Billy was greatly saddened by the passing of Father Murphy but he took comfort from the letter he had received, and when he arrived back from the service with his family he went to the bedroom and sat reading it once more.
Dear Billy,
Time runs out for all of us and the day must come when each of us has to pay our dues for living. For me I feel the time is near, but I have no fear or grief. I’m sure I’m going to a far better place, and I look forward to meeting many old friends. Grief and pain are not for us, only for those we must leave behind. I will say a prayer for you and your family, Billy, and I shall pray for all the folk I know and have grown to love.
I see that the fire has burned low and the hour is late so I will leave you with certain instructions and a little advice. Firstly, I am not a wealthy man, for the priesthood is not compatible with wealth, but I have one or two life policies which, after the necessary expenses have been deducted, will amount to around a hundred pounds or thereabouts. This sum of money will be for the committee to use as required, and we do require a roof for the gymnasium. Use the money wisely, Billy, and when the day of opening comes and the doors swing back for the young men of our parish, just remember that I’ll be there with you.
Lastly, a few words of advice. Learn forbearance, Billy. It is a virtue to be prized.
Goodnight, and may God bless you.
Seamus P. Murphy
Billy sat on his bed, fond thoughts and memories of the old priest filling his mind. He could hear his excited children playing noisily in the parlour and the sound of Connie crying. Annie came into the room and stood beside him, putting her hands on his shoulders.
‘He was a good priest, Billy, and a good man,’ she said quietly.
He nodded and picked up the letter from the bed. ‘What does forbearance mean, Annie?’ he asked.
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Patience, Billy. Patience.’
Chapter Thirty
During the whole of January 1933 it was bitterly cold and snow fell on the cobbled streets. It lay deep, with little sign of a thaw, and it claimed a victim in Page Street. Maggie Jones fell and broke her hip as she struggled to the market one day, and a week later she died in hospital. Her old friends in the little riverside turning stood silently at their front doors as the hearse departed, the horses straining to keep their feet as they were led away from Maggie’s house. The old lady’s son Ernest and his wife were accompanied by Florrie Axford and Sadie Sullivan in the following coach, and as the cortege disappeared into Jamaica Road Maisie Dougall turned to Maudie Mycroft and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Maggie was ever so proud of young Ernie,’ she said, trying to raise a smile. ‘When ’e won that medal she couldn’t stop talkin’ about ’im. She was pissed fer a solid week.’
‘’Ave a bit o’ respect, Mais,’ Maudie reproached her.
Maisie gave Maudie a dark look. ‘Well, it’s true,’ she told her. ‘Ole Maggie ’ad ter be carried ’ome from the Kings Arms one night. Me an’ Florrie was sittin’ in the snug bar an’ Maggie come in wiv ’er bonnet all lopsided an’ she could ’ardly stand up. Florrie reckoned she’d bin doin’ all the pubs in Dock’ead that night. She give ’er a pinch of snuff ter try an’ steady ’er but it only made the poor cow sick. Gawd, what a night that was.’
Maudie made her excuses and went back inside the house, fearful of being party to what she thought were wicked words, while Maisie moved along to another door to continue her observations.
Although the cold wind was blowing through the backwater folk stayed at their front doors to discuss the funeral and the abundance of flowers which draped the hearse. Eventually their conversations returned to the plight they found themselves in. Work was hard to find and many of the women had their husbands and sons sitting around the house doing nothing. Factories were on short time and the docks and wharves provided very little work. Men trudged through the snow to join the ever-lengthening dole queues and returned home with their shoulders bowed and their shabby coat collars turned up against the cold wind. Women struggled to feed their families and searched through cupboards and drawers to find items to pawn. Stew pots simmered over fires which were kept going with bits of wood and tarry logs, and watery soup was thickened by adding bacon bones, potato peelings and flour. Folk in desperate need knocked on their neighbour’s door and cups of sugar and flour were passed out along with a few slices of bread and a smile. Pats of margarine and a smear of jam made up the meal for many families, and in many cases the woman of the house went hungry as she lied about already having eaten, watching with a heavy heart as her man and her children ate a frugal meal.
The houses in Page Street did not let in the weather, however, and the gas coppers were now all working. Maudie’s bedroom ceiling had been fixed and Florrie wondered how she was going to find the extra rent
George Galloway had threatened her with if she did not comply with his new scheme. Each Monday morning the rent man called and Florrie along with the rest of her neighbours awaited the bad news, unaware that their landlord had shelved his plans to install more tenants in the old houses. Galloway had other, more pressing matters to take care of, and as he sat in the yard office talking with his son Frank he was a very worried man.
‘Five years we’ve ’ad that contract an’ now the whoresons are not renewin’ it,’ he moaned. ‘We’re bein’ underbid, an’ what’s more we’re losin’ out on the day work. I told yer we should ’ave kept a few ’orses. Those bloody lorries are useless this weavver. If it goes on like this fer much longer we’ll be in the poor-’ouse.’
Frank Galloway stared moodily at his ageing father. He had seen trouble ahead when the old man refused to move with the times. He had wanted his father to go for the more profitable transport work with the larger food factories in the area and instead had seen the business lose out because the old man insisted on sticking with the smaller firms which were now hit hardest of all by the depression that seemed to be sweeping the country. Other transport firms in the area had changed from horse transport to lorries and had picked up work that until then had been transported by rail to cities and towns up and down the land. They were riding the storm while the Galloway business was suffering badly. The old fool will end up going bankrupt if he’s not careful, Frank groaned to himself. It’s a pity he doesn’t retire and be done with it.
Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 42