Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane

by Harry Bowling

  Murphy’s Gym had become a well-known club throughout South London and boxing tournaments were regular occurrences there. It was often used for political meetings too, and the payments for the hire of the hall helped in the upkeep of the building. The campaign to get boxing banned in the riverside borough had failed completely and the champion of the proposed new bye-law had resigned from the council. Hettie Donaldson had had little success with her petition and had encountered open hostility on her visit to Page Street. One woman had dowsed her with a bucket of cold water and another woman, at number 37, had told her in no uncertain terms that if she ever showed her face in the street again everyone would think that she had been in the ring herself.

  For Carrie Bradley the passing months were a time of mixed fortunes. She had engaged Jamie Robins as a clerk and was very pleased at the way he had settled down with the firm. Jamie felt much happier working in the calmer and friendlier atmosphere of the Salmon Lane yard and he got on well with his new employer. His contribution to the success of Carrie Bradley’s cartage firm was evidenced by the new contracts which had been prised away from the greedy grasp of George Galloway. Jamie knew at first hand the fees and charges of the Galloway company and with the knowledge he imparted Carrie was able to undercut on two lucrative contracts when they came up for renewal. One was with a food company which distributed to hotels in London’s West End, and the other was with a Tooley Street manufacturing clothier who supplied the military with uniforms. Carrie found that her transport was now being stretched to the limit and she realised that the day would soon come when she would have to consider using motor vehicles if she wanted to compete with the bigger, more established transport firms.

  Carrie still thought about Joe constantly. She had heard nothing from him and she wondered and worried about his well-being. Her personal life had become mundane, an endless round of work and sleep. Every day was spent running the firm and working alongside Jamie Robins on the accounts and wages, but when the long hours were over she nearly always managed to find a little time to sit with her ageing parents and young Rachel, who was growing into a very beautiful woman. Like herself, Rachel missed having Joe around and she was always asking after him. Carrie knew in her heart that she would always love the roguish character, and she had grown to realise that there could be no other man in her life. Rachel was aware how much her mother missed Joe, and she had lain awake some nights willing him to return and praying for his safety as she heard the stifled sobs coming from her mother’s room.

  William Tanner was finding it more difficult to get about now and he sat around the house for most of the day, his mind drifting and his thoughts returning to the days and nights he had spent caring for the horses at Galloway’s stables. Occasionally, when the weather was mild, he had been in the habit of taking a short walk to the main thoroughfare and meeting with some of the old men he had known for many years. The group had always met under the giant plane tree in Jamaica Road and had sat together on an iron bench watching the traffic hurry by and folk passing to and fro. There had been Albert Swain and Charlie Smedley, Bob Maycock and George Chislet, as well as Peter Foster, who had sometimes brought his harmonica along and played a few of the old songs. William had enjoyed meeting them on summer afternoons when they sat in the shade of the tree while Peter blew on his musical instrument, the haunting tones carrying the men’s thoughts back through their happier, younger days. Now though the men did not go there. Instead they walked into St James’s Church gardens and sat in the shade of a sycamore tree. The giant plane tree which shaded the iron bench was nearer and there was no busy road to cross but after what George Chislet referred to as the ‘Bank Holiday Affair’ the men all shunned their original meeting-place.

  It had happened on the Monday afternoon of the August bank holiday the previous year when the old friends gathered in the shade around the iron bench. Charlie Smedley was there early and some time later he was joined by Albert Swain. The two men sat talking about their army days during the Great War, smoking their clay pipes and occasionally spitting tobacco juice on to the already well-stained pavement. Later they were joined by Will Tanner and Bob Maycock and then by George Chislet who got about with the aid of a pair of walking sticks. The five men squeezed on to the bench together and when Peter Foster arrived a little while later he had to sit on the arm.

  ‘She went out terday,’ George said suddenly.

  ‘Who did?’ Albert asked.

  ‘Why, the Baltic Star,’ George told him.

  ‘What d’yer say?’ Bob asked, his hearing seriously impaired since his accident in the gasworks.

  ‘She went out terday,’ Albert shouted in Bob’s ear.

  ‘Where she go?’ Bob Maycock asked.

  ‘’Ow the bleedin’ ’ell do I know?’ Albert said irritably. ‘Back ter the Baltic, I s’pose.’

  ‘Lovely ship that is,’ Charlie Smedley cut in. ‘Bin comin’ up the river fer as long as I can remember.’

  ‘There’s no such fing as ’olidays when yer a seaman,’ Albert remarked. ‘It’s yer tides, yer see. Yer gotta stick ter the tides or yer can’t get away.’

  ‘There’s not much traffic on the river these days,’ Will said, rolling a cigarette.

  George tapped his clay pipe on one of his walking sticks and blew down the stem. ‘I remember back in the early twenties when they was linin’ up ter get a berth,’ he said with authority. ‘Bit different now though. If it goes on like this fer much longer we’ll all be in the work’ouse.’

  ‘Who’s gone in the work’ouse?’ Bob asked.

  The men exchanged grins and Albert leaned towards the dull-eared Bob Maycock. ‘Dirty Doris from Dock’ead,’ he shouted.

  Bob nodded and stared out at the passing traffic for a few moments then he folded his arms. ‘She was always ’angin’ round the Crown at one time,’ he remarked. ‘She used ter pick up the seamen.’

  ‘Who, Dirty Doris?’

  ‘’Alf a crown she charged by all accounts,’ Bob rambled on. ‘Bert Shanks ’ad ’alf a crown’s worth. ’E told me ’e’d sooner ’ave gone up the Star Music ’All wiv ’is ’alf crown. In an’ out in five minutes ’e was. ’E said the bed was rotten an’ there was fish-an’-chip leavin’s in a newspaper on the washstand. Bert said ’e wouldn’t get on the bed. Frightened ’e’d pick somefing up. ’E ’ad it be’ind the door, ’e did, then ’e asked fer change. Bert said it was only worth two bob.’

  ‘I bet Dirty Doris give ’im a piece of ’er tongue,’ Albert shouted in Bob’s ear.

  ‘Who’s talkin’ about Dirty Doris?’ Bob replied indignantly. ‘I’m on about Peggy Macklin from Rovver’ithe.’

  Charlie Smedley cut off a piece of plug tobacco and proceeded to chew on it, occasionally spitting put a jet of juice. ‘I remember the time when somebody stuck a red lamp outside Dirty Doris’s ’ouse,’ he said presently. ‘She kicked up merry ’ell the next mornin’. She swore it was ole Broom’ead Smith what done it. Mind yer, I wouldn’t put it past ’im. Broom’ead was a character in those days. Changed now ’e ’as though, since ’e’s bin married ter that Alice Johnson. Poor ole sod’s frightened ter move wivout ’er knowin’. I’d give ’er the back ’o me ’and if she was married ter me.’

  The other men grinned at each other, and Peter got out his harmonica.

  ‘Give us that there one about the miner’s dream, Pete,’ Albert asked him.

  Peter spread his elbows as he cupped the instrument to his mouth and the melancholy strains of ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ drifted out on to the summer breeze. The men sat listening quietly, with the exception of Bob Maycock who started on about Peggy Macklin again.

  ‘Shut yer row, we’re listenin’ ter the music,’ Albert shouted in Bob’s ear.

  Bob went quiet and it was not long before he drifted off to sleep. The rest of the men sat thinking and remembering as Peter went through his repertoire, and then when the breeze was getting up and the dust started to swirl around their feet Peter lowered the harmo
nica from his mouth and rubbed it along the sleeve of his coat. ‘There’s a storm brewin’,’ he remarked.

  William Tanner stood up and banged his foot down hard on the pavement to restore the circulation. ‘I’d better be orf ’ome ter me tea or my Nellie’s gonna wonder where I’ve got to,’ he said.

  Peter Foster waved goodbye to the group and walked off, while George Chislet stood up and leaned heavily on his sticks. ‘I fink Peter should ’ave bin on the stage the way ’e plays that there mouth organ,’ he remarked.

  Albert Swain did up his bootlace and glanced at Bob Maycock who had not moved. ‘Look at that lazy git,’ he said grinning. ‘’E’s bin asleep fer the past hour.’

  ‘Give ’im a nudge,’ Will said. ‘’E’ll be there till mornin’.’

  Albert shook Bob by the shoulder and the man’s head rolled to one side, his mouth open wide. ‘Gawd blimey, I believe ’e’s gorn!’ Albert exclaimed. ‘Look at ’is face.’

  William Tanner put his hand on Bob’s neck then slipped it inside the man’s shirt. ‘Yer right, Albert. The poor sod’s dead,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We’d better get a copper. Yer not s’posed ter move ’em,’ Charlie said fearfully.

  ‘Ain’t yer s’posed ter stretch ’em out before that there rigid mortis sets in?’ George queried.

  ‘Leave ’im alone,’ William said. ‘I’ll slip over the paper shop an’ phone the police.’

  When the body of Bob Maycock was finally removed from the seat the friends started off for their homes, unable to get the policeman’s words out of their minds. ‘Bloody dangerous that seat,’ he had said. ‘That’s the second body I’ve pulled off o’ there. Two years ago ole Granny Applegate sat down there wiv ’er shoppin’ an’ passed away just like that. If it was down ter me I’d take the bloody seat away an’ chuck it in the furnace.’

  From that day on the group of men gave the bench seat a wide berth, and whenever they sat together in the pleasant gardens of the church Albert Swain felt obliged to say, ‘If ever I fall asleep on this bench, wake me up straight away, fer Gawdsake.’

  It was during the hot summer of ’34 that Broomhead Smith made the biggest decision of his life. He felt that it was even more momentous than agreeing to give up his independence and marry Alice, and that was saying something. Broomhead had decided to retire once and for all. He sat alone in the public bar of the Kings Arms late one morning, a pint of porter at his elbow, and suddenly all the reasons why he should not retire crowded into his mind. They made the idea of taking up his pipe and slippers seem a lot less attractive and the Bermondsey totter felt depressed. Retiring was not for the likes of him, he reflected. Every morning he would have to get up and face Alice, curlers and all, without the comforting thought that he would soon be on his rounds. Every day he would get under Alice’s feet and before long she would no doubt get him to do the dusting, or put the washing through the wringer. Then there were the windows. Alice always kept them clean and with him around she would most certainly delegate the job of doing them. Then there was the front doorstep.

  ‘Oh my Gawd!’ Broomhead said, addressing his glass of porter: Broomhead Smith, a local businessman and a well-respected member of the community, on his hands and knees whitening the doorstep. No, there was a limit to what he could be expected to do, however much it upset Alice.

  Broomhead took a large draught of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He knew that he had to face the facts. He was now seventy-four and almost ten years beyond the normal retiring age. Getting up into the seat of his cart was becoming more and more difficult and carrying pieces of lumber down flights of stairs was now an agonising task. He did not have the strength to manhandle those wringers out of the houses and on to his cart anymore, nor the inclination to haggle over the price of things. His eyesight was not too good now either, he had to admit. Many a time he had urged his nag out into the main roads when there was traffic coming and if it hadn’t been for the good sense of the animal the pair of them would have been maimed or even worse. Well, there it was, he told himself. It was going to be the pipe and slippers, Alice’s sharp tongue and the prospect of becoming a doddering old fool in next to no time at all. Still it had been a good innings, and he had made a good number of friends over the years, and a few enemies too.

  Broomhead finished his pint of porter and ordered another. The thing that upset him the most was Alice’s change of heart when he told her he was thinking of retiring. At one time she had insisted that he look after the horse and make sure it was properly fed, even demanding that he plait the animal’s mane and tail and add a few extra brasses to the harness. Now she had become callous and insensitive, and the elderly totter growled to himself as he sipped his beer. ‘Yer can’t be soft,’ she had told him in no uncertain terms. ‘It’ll be better if yer take it ter the knackers’ yard. Yer should get a few bob on it, an’ the cart should raise a shillin’ or two. Clear out the stable an’ sort out that pile o’ rubbish as well before yer pack up. Burn the lot, it’s not werf anyfing.’

  Selling the cart was all right, he thought, but there were a lot of sentimental items that he had hoarded over the years. Parting with them all would be a sad thing to do. As for taking the horse to the knackers’ yard - that was the most terrible thing Alice had ever said. All right, the nag wasn’t up to it anymore, but it was only feeling its years, the same as him. It had pulled that cart around the streets for quite a few years now and it didn’t cost much to feed. Alice had been adamant though. The horse must be turned into glue.

  Broomhead sat back in his chair and shook his head slowly. Alice had become a hard bitch, he thought distastefully. She had listened while he told her about the cost of transporting a horse to the knackers’ yard and then she had suggested that he pole-axe the animal himself and sell the carcase to the local cat’s-meat man. Well, one thing was for sure, he told himself, the nag was not going to suffer. It had a right to a dignified end the same as humans did. Maybe he should have pole-axed Alice there and then and sold her to the glue factory.

  When he had finished his beer Broomhead left the pub and walked to the tram stop.

  ‘Ain’t yer workin’ terday?’ a voice greeted him.

  Broomhead looked at the big woman and shook his head. ‘Nah, I’m retired,’ he replied.

  ‘It must be nice ter sit around the ’ouse instead of ’avin’ ter go out in all weavvers,’ she remarked.

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ he said without any enthusiasm in his voice.

  ‘I bet Alice is pleased,’ the woman said, grinning at him.

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose she is,’ the totter growled.

  The arrival of the tram prevented Broomhead from upsetting the woman with the rest of his reply, and as he climbed aboard he made sure that he sat down as far away from her as he could.

  When he finally arrived at the small stable behind the Tower Bridge Road after first making a call to the cat’s-meat man Broomhead fed and watered the horse and mucked out the stall. The nag looked at him with its baleful eyes and Broomhead gave it a little tweak on its ear. ‘Yer not goin’ ter suffer, ole mate,’ he said. ‘Yer bin a good pal ter me over the years even though yer just a lazy, scruffy, flea-bitten ole nag.’

  The horse stamped its hoof and got on with munching into its nosebag while Broomhead took off his coat and trilby and searched amongst the bits and pieces in one corner of the stable. He pulled the old horse collar out and tossed it to one side, then he dragged out the heavy padlocked box and bent down to pick up the thick, heavy pole that was lying against the wall. It had once served as a shoemaker’s last, with a socket at the narrow end to accommodate the different shoe irons, and it was banded with iron along its length. ‘This’ll do nicely,’ he said aloud as he tested the weight of the pole.

  The nag blew into its nosebag and tossed its head in the air as Broomhead prepared himself. ‘Yer know, I’m gonna miss yer, ole pal,’ he said, glancing at the animal as he spat on his hands and then clasped the pole firmly,
raising it high above his head.

  One hour later a van pulled up outside the stable and the driver alighted from the cab wearing a leather apron. He walked into the stable and nodded to Broomhead. ‘Are yer ready?’ he said.

  The totter blew into his red-spotted handkerchief and put it back into his trouser pocket. ‘It was a good ’orse. I couldn’t see it suffer,’ he said sadly.

  Money changed hands and then the driver glanced at Broomhead. ‘Let’s get it loaded then,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ the totter said, sighing.

  ‘Please yerself.’

  Broomhead removed the nosebag and led the animal out to the van. ‘Yer’ll be ’appy on the farm, ole pal,’ he said aloud as the van pulled away.

  Before he left the stable for the last time Broomhead kicked the splintered box into the corner. It had held the money he had saved over the years, money that Alice did not know about, which had provided for the horse’s retirement. The key to the padlock had been lost years ago but he had slipped a regular amount of money through a gap in the lid every week.