Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane

by Harry Bowling

  After the lunch adjournment the judge began his summing-up. Ellie Roffey stood passive in the dock throughout, her head bowed slightly and her hands clasped in front of her. Her dark hair was pulled tightly behind her head and secured by a thin black ribbon and she looked wan and hollow-eyed, her face clearly reflecting the ordeal she was going through. Above her in the public gallery her two adult children sat together, clasping each other’s hands, their eyes staring down at the stern figure of the judge. A few feet away Florrie Axford sat beside Maisie Dougall and Carrie Bradley, all three listening intently to the solemn voice which echoed around the lofty court room.

  Finally the jury left to deliberate and Florrie turned to Maisie. ‘I could do wiv a nice cuppa, Mais,’ she said. ‘I’m fair parched.’

  The tea room in the basement of the building was packed, and for an hour the three women sat sipping cups of tea, talking quietly and watching the comings and goings.

  ‘D’yer fink they’ll be out long?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘Well, I ’eard once that the longer juries are out the better the chances fer a not guilty verdict,’ Carrie told her.

  ‘In that case I don’t mind stoppin’ ’ere all night,’ Florrie said, taking out her snuffbox and giving the inquisitive woman sitting near her a hard look.

  Suddenly the word passed around that the jury were returning, and by the time Florrie had negotiated the many stairs to the gallery the jury were taking their places.

  ‘Foreman of the jury, have you reached your verdict?’ the judge demanded.

  ‘We have, your honour.’

  ‘How find you the accused? Guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘We the jury find the defendant guilty as charged.’

  A loud anguished cry rang out from the gallery and down in the dock Ellie Roffey lowered her head. Florrie took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes while Maisie remained impassive, hardly believing what she had heard. Carrie looked down at her clasped hands feeling pain for Ellie’s two daughters who were sobbing loudly, while Ellie’s many supporters gave vent to their angry feelings shouting obscenities down into the well of the court.

  After order had finally been restored the judge pronounced sentence. ‘Arson is a serious crime, and apart from the destruction of property it very often happens that in the perpetration of the crime of arson innocent lives are lost. Mercifully in this instance no deaths occurred, but the crime is not made any less dire by circumstance. The lives of those dwelling nearby and the firemen who were required to fight the fire were put at great risk. Ellie Roffey, you will go to prison for five years.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  In January as the hard winter took a grip Carrie was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the business running smoothly. Icy roads and lame horses stretched her resources to the limit, and when one of her customers phoned her to say he was forced to cancel their contract she slumped down at her desk and dropped her head in her hands. It had been a miserable Christmas with her father ill in bed, and two lame horses for which she had made poultices day and night. There had been no news of Joe and Carrie had thought about him constantly. Rachel too had seemed very subdued, spending much of the time alone in her room, when she was not helping her mother with the household chores. Only once had she mentioned Joe, and that had been on Christmas Day when the two of them were alone in the cosy parlour.

  ‘Do yer still wish Joe was ’ere, Mum?’ Rachel had said as she sat in front of the roaring fire, her head resting on the edge of Carrie’s armchair.

  ‘Of course I do,’ she answered, stroking her daughter’s hair.

  ‘Yer still love ’im, Mum, don’t yer?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘I wish we could find ’im,’ Rachel sighed.

  ‘P’raps Joe don’t want to be found, luv,’ Carrie replied.

  ‘If I ’ad one wish I’d wish for Joe ter come back, Mum. I can’t stand ter see yer so miserable an’ lonely,’ Rachel said, taking her mother’s hand in hers.

  Carrie sighed sadly as she gazed into the glowing coals. Her daughter was growing into a beautiful young woman and life for her should now be exciting, happy and carefree. Instead she had been lending a hand in the business and tending the home as well as helping to care for her sick grandfather ever since she had left school at fourteen. She never seemed to complain, but there were times when Carrie noticed a sad, tired expression on her daughter’s face and she worried for her. One day the business would be hers, and if it prospered Rachel would be able to enjoy a good future and a good life. Would it all be worth the price she was having to pay now?

  The bleak winter days were long, tiring and empty for Carrie, with the constant worry of the business and her father’s failing health taking its toll. Her mother seemed to have accepted that William was not going to get better and she sat around for most of the day, hardly ever venturing far from the house in case something happened to him. Carrie’s only relief from the endless grind was when Don Jacobs visited the yard. She always looked forward to his visits. What had happened between them before Joe came home from prison seemed to have sealed their friendship in a strange way and their short passionate encounter was never mentioned. They both understood that their loneliness and need for human warmth had thrown them together for a brief moment in time, and in the future they were destined to go their separate ways, remaining just good friends. Don was now courting again and he was well aware of Carrie’s yearning for Joe, for whenever he visited the yard the conversation invariably turned to the absent man.

  During the cold, bleak January, folk were still talking about the Roffey trial and Ellie’s subsequent imprisonment, which had shocked and saddened the little riverside community. Everyone felt that Ellie had been unjustly imprisoned and there was talk of an appeal being made as soon as possible. In the meantime the burnt-out premises in Page Street remained closed, and rumours abounded that the owner of the rag sorters had done very nicely by way of insurance.

  The women of the little riverside street blamed themselves for involving Ellie in their troubles and whenever they gathered together they always ended up discussing the affair.

  ‘Yer know, I can’t get that bleedin’ young bloke out o’ me mind,’ Maisie said as she sat with Sadie and Florrie one day in Sadie’s parlour. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen ’im somewhere.’

  ‘It was that git who ’elped put ’er away,’ Florrie growled. ‘I’d take a bet it was ’im what put that bloody cuttle-bone in Ellie’s ’ouse.’

  ‘’E looked a shifty git, didn’t ’e?’ Maisie remarked with distaste.

  Sadie had been ill with pleurisy during the trial but she had been kept informed of what happened. ‘What must that poor cow be goin’ frew?’ she said sadly. ‘Fancy bein’ stuck away in that ’orrible ’ole. They say ’Olloway’s worse than the men’s prisons. There’s all sorts in there. Mind yer, though, I reckon our Ellie’s converted a few of ’em already.’

  Florrie took out her snuffbox and tapped her two fingers on the lid. ‘I saw Ellie’s younger daughter at the market the day before yesterday,’ she told them. ‘The poor cow looks done in wiv the worry.’

  ‘I wish there was somefink we could do,’ Maisie said, sipping her tea.

  ‘Well, there’s not a fing we can do, so it’s no good keep goin’ on about it, Mais,’ Florrie replied sharply.

  ‘I wish I could fink where I’ve seen that bloke before,’ Maisie went on.

  Florrie raised her eyes to the ceiling and put down her teacup. ‘Yer’d better be careful, Mais, or yer’ll be talkin’ about ’im in yer sleep. Your Fred’ll end up givin’ yer a back-’ander.’

  During the wintry January William Tanner took a turn for the worse. His breathing became increasingly difficult, and when the doctor was called he diagnosed pneumonia. William was rushed away to hospital and for two days he hovered between waking and unconsciousness, then on the third day he sank into a peaceful sleep from which he never awakened. The funeral was attended only by William’s
immediate family but as the cortege passed along Page Street everyone seemed to be at their front doors, the women holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and the men standing erect and bare-headed. As the funeral carriages swung around the turning Nellie glanced from the carriage window at the deserted yard where William had spent so much of his working life. ‘At least yer farvver never suffered at the end,’ she said, her voice betraying little emotion.

  Danny sat with his head bowed. He had become very close to his father during the latter years of his life and he knew that he was going to miss him badly. Carrie glanced at her grieving brother and then her mother as though fearing that they might see how hollow she felt inside. There was no tearful emotion, no despair, only an emptiness that frightened her. All the memories of her childhood days helping her father in the Galloway stable came crowding back as she sat in the carriage following after his coffin, but she could not bring herself to cry. It was as though all her emotion, all her feelings had been drawn away from her. The only comfort she had was knowing that before her father died she had managed to fulfil her vow, taking him and her mother away from the slum dwellings that had been their home for so long. At least her father had known some comfort and happiness in his final years, helping in the yard and being amongst the horses that he loved so much.

  In February 1936 Carrie realised her long-time ambition when she bought two Leyland lorries and openly competed for the longer-distance haulage work. Bradley Cartage Contractors was now firmly established and the contracts started to come in. In March she bid against the Galloway firm for a regular contract with a large food-processing company in Bermondsey and her tender was accepted. For a time everything ran smoothly. The two drivers she had employed proved reliable and there was still regular contract work for her horse transport. Carrie’s business had weathered the quiet winter months better than most of the cartage firms and she now looked forward to a busy spring.

  Towards the end of March, however, things began to go wrong. One of the lorries broke down at the food factory one Monday morning and it was later discovered that there was sand in the fuel-lines. The following week one of the wagons was almost run off the road by a speeding lorry and the cheerful carman Paddy Byrne just escaped being thrown under the wheels. Another incident occurred soon after and almost proved fatal for the lorry driver.

  Tom Armfield had spent the early morning loading cases of canned foods at the factory and by eleven o’clock he was on his way to make a delivery to the Royal Navy depot at Chatham. Tom was feeling happy and whistled to himself as he drove up the steep hill to Blackheath. The vehicle was a new one and it handled well. The sun was shining and the day promised to remain fine as he slipped into top gear and motored across the empty heath. He could see the little village church away to his right, and beyond, Blackheath village. Way in front he saw the long steep rise of Shooter’s Hill. The engine sounded sweet, with a comforting reserve of power beneath his feet. As he caught up with a slow-moving horse cart in front of him it slowed almost to a standstill and swung round tightly into a narrow side turning. Tom was forced to brake. It was then that he felt the excess movement of the brake pedal and had to press down harder than normal to ease back his vehicle.

  The road ahead was clear now and he pressed down on the accelerator. The responding roar was strong and he felt the power as the lorry took the steep hill at a good rate. Twice down through the gears and he was at the brow of the hill. Below him in the early spring air he saw the countryside spread out and the distant township. The weight of the five-ton load was thrusting forward as he headed down the hill in third gear and applied the footbrake. Again the pedal travelled too far for comfort, and then suddenly it went straight down to the floorboards. There was nothing there! Tom pumped hard on the pedal as the speed of the vehicle increased and a sickening feeling gripped his stomach as he realised that the brakes were useless. There was nothing he could do except try to steer tight to the kerbside in an effort to slow the lorry down. It bumped and jolted with a shudder and he could feel the momentum and hear the screeching of the tyres against the kerbstones. It was holding for the moment he thought and with a quick action he managed to change down a gear. He gritted his teeth at the grating noise, dreading he would strip the gear, but it worked. The vehicle was holding a constant speed and Tom was anxious to throw on the handbrake, but he knew that it would be no good if he applied it too soon.

  ‘Oh my Gawd!’ he cried aloud as he saw the motor car pull out from a side road at the bottom of the hill and pressed hard on the horn as he drew closer and closer. The car pulled in towards the kerb and by swinging hard on the wheel Tom managed to miss it by inches as he passed. It was now or never, he thought, and with all the strength he could muster he pulled back the handbrake, letting the nearside wheels rub against the kerb at the same time. The lorry jarred horribly but he managed to hold it steady and it pulled up abruptly with a shudder. Tom dropped his head over the wheel, his breath coming fast.

  ‘Bloody maniac!’ the car driver shouted at him as he drove by.

  Tom Armfield forced a grin and then retched out of his cab window.

  On Friday evening all of Carrie’s workers were assembled in the yard office, Carrie stood with her back to the door, her face grim as she addressed them. ‘I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but yer can be sure I’m gonna find out,’ she said in a determined voice.

  Paddy Byrne looked up from rolling a cigarette. ‘It’s lucky me an’ Tom wasn’t killed, Mrs Bradley,’ he remarked. ‘Somebody’s be’ind all what’s ’appened, right enough.’

  Carrie nodded. ‘Now look, all of yer. I’m givin’ yer the chance ter leave now. There’ll be a full week’s wages fer anybody who wants ter leave right away. I can’t ask yer ter take chances fer my sake.’

  Big Jack Simpson rubbed his hand over his shaven head. ‘We ain’t finkin’ o’ leavin’, Mrs Bradley. We jus’ want yer ter get it sorted out, that’s all.’

  ‘All right, Jack. I promise yer I’ll get ter the bottom of it,’ Carrie told him. ‘What yer mus’ remember though is not ter leave yer wagons or lorries unattended. When yer use the coffee shops make sure yer pull up where yer can see ’em. If possible use the coffee stall so yer can keep a better eye out. I know it’s gonna be ’ard fer a time but I’ll do me best ter get it sorted out, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘’Ave yer got any ideas who might be at the back of it, Mrs Bradley?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Well, whoever it is they’ve got some knowledge o’ lorries,’ Carrie replied. ‘First there was sand in the fuel-pipes of Tubby’s lorry, then your lorry ’ad the brake-cables loosened. Fings like that don’t ’appen by accident.’

  Tubby Walsh rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. ‘Don’t yer fink it’s about time yer called in the police?’ he asked.

  Carrie folded her arms and arched her back against the door. ‘I’ve given it a lot o’thought, Tubby, but the police’ll only take statements an’ advise us ter be careful. They can’t foller us about all over the place. Besides, whoever’s doin’ it will jus’ lie low till the coast is clear. No, it’s gotta be ’andled anuvver way. I tell yer this though. Stick wiv me frew this an’ I’ll make sure yer’ll all benefit. I’m workin’ out a bonus scheme over the weekend. When I earn, you’ll earn.’

  Paddy Byrne took a puff of his cigarette. ‘That sounds all right as far as I’m concerned,’ he said, looking round the room.

  Voices were raised in support and Carrie smiled with relief. ‘Right, men, get off ’ome now, an’ fanks fer yer support.’

  Frank Galloway slipped out of the Crown and made his way past the quiet wharves to London Bridge Station. He carried a small attaché case and a light mackintosh over his arm, and as he reached the long flight of steps which led up to the station forecourt he smiled smugly. Bella had taken the story hook, line and sinker, he told himself. But then she would, if she thought there was money involved. Going up to Yorkshire to look into the possibility of buying a fleet of lorries from an a
iling transport concern seemed a tall story but he had been convincing. He had made sure he looked peeved when he told her he would have to spend Friday and Saturday nights in a grotty boarding-house in some dull provincial town, but pound notes worked with Bella, and the gift of a new coat had helped to put her into a happy frame of mind. The bloody woman was clothes mad, he grumbled to himself. She would soon need another wardrobe to hang the stuff.

  Never mind, the weekend he had planned would be worth the cost of that new coat. Peggy Harrison was the sort of lady who could make anyone forget their troubles. Two whole nights in a discreet hotel on the Sussex coast with Peggy for company was going to be something to remember, Frank thought with relish. She was some woman, and her story to her husband Theo Harrison had been even more bizarre than his to Bella. Theo was desperate for children and Peggy had no intentions of supplying him with any, but as far as Theo was concerned his dutiful wife was as sad as he was about her inability to become pregnant by him. A private clinic in Bournemouth had been doing tests on women desperate to conceive, and the results had been staggering, according to Peggy’s make-believe friend. It would mean two whole days and nights bed rest, and some pretty horrible tests, Peggy told Theo, but anything was worth trying if she could give him what his heart most desired. Theo had been very pleased at the hopeful news, and he had even offered to book himself into a nearby hotel while his wife suffered on his behalf, just to be near her, but Peggy had dissuaded him. She had told him she couldn’t bear to think he was suffering too. Better he had a pleasant weekend at the golf links with his drinking friends and did not worry unduly. All would be well.