William’s regular snoring sounded loudly and Nellie reached out with her foot and touched the toe of his boot. He grunted and then moved his head to one side and the snoring ceased. Nellie felt a sudden tenderness as she looked at him sleeping. His fair hair was dishevelled and a tuft lay over his forehead. Maybe he won’t have to run those horses after all, she thought with a wry smile, although he wouldn’t thank her for giving their neighbours the information she had just coaxed out of him. She would have to be careful. If George Galloway found out it was she who had given the news to the women he would make things very difficult for her husband. William was a quiet, easy-going man but he could be pushed only so far, and as for Galloway - he would not allow his childhood friendship with William to influence a business decision, of that she was sure. It had nearly come to that eight years ago, she recalled with a shudder. Thankfully, William had never found out what had taken place. It had been a bad time for everyone then, a time which Nellie tried not to think about, but although she had managed to be a good wife and mother to the children over the years, she knew she would never be allowed to forget what had happened.
Chapter Three
George Galloway lived in Tyburn Square, a tidy place where the large Victorian houses looked out on to tall plane trees enclosed in a small garden area in the centre of the square. The garden was surrounded with iron railings and had an arched entrance. Inside there were wooden benches set out under the trees and around the circumference of the garden, and flowers grew from square beds set amongst the paving-stones. The houses were fronted by ornamental iron railings and the place was quiet, although it stood just behind the noisy Jamaica Road.
Tyburn Square had originally been built to accommodate the shippers and businessmen who owned the Bermondsey wharves and warehouses, men who had earned their fortunes trading along from Greenwich Reach to the Pool of London. As industry moved into the area, many of the original occupants of the houses moved away to escape the ever-increasing danger of contracting illnesses spread by the yellow, sulphurous fogs or the fevers which were constantly breaking out in the riverside hovels. Now Tyburn Square had a second wave of prosperous tenants, like George Galloway who had built his business up from trading with one horse and cart. The square now boasted solicitors and ship-chandlers, cordwainers and wheelwrights among its community, as well as a few retired businessmen who were loath to leave Bermondsey despite the growing dangers and the constant noise and bustle.
George Galloway lived at number 22. His two-storeyed house was tastefully furnished. Thick draperies covered the windows, and the furniture was of rosewood and oak. Heavy carpets covered the floors, and the downstairs and first-floor rooms were kept warm with open fires.
Galloway employed a housekeeper who lived in a room on the top floor of the house. Mrs Flynn had come to work for the cartage contractor soon after his wife Martha died. She was herself a widow who had lost her two children while they were still babies. Mrs Flynn’s husband had been the first carman to work for Galloway. He had died under the hooves of a team of horses which had bolted when they were frightened by the exploding boiler of a steam tram in the Old Kent Road. Nora Flynn was still only thirty-five, although her thin frame and gaunt face made her seem much older. She looked stern with her tightly swept-up black hair and her piercing dark eyes, but beneath the surface she was a kindhearted woman who had borne the tragedy in her life with fortitude. She had taken care of George Galloway’s young daughter Josephine from birth, and had been a restraining and calming influence on her employer’s two lively sons who had taken their mother’s death very badly. The Galloway children all loved her, although the boys were very careful not to anger her. As far as Josephine was concerned, Nora was her mother, although she had always been taught to call her by name. It was something George Galloway had insisted upon.
Most of the top floor of the house was used for storage. Nora occupied only the front room which looked down on to the square. It was simply furnished, containing a wardrobe and dressing table, a bed in one corner and a table beneath the wide window. The floor was carpeted, and the small open fire provided enough warmth for Nora’s needs. The housekeeper lived a spartan life, rising early and washing in cold water from the washstand bowl. She prepared the food in the large ground-floor kitchen at the back of the house and spent a considerable time each day keeping the whole house in spotless condition. Her only relaxation was to take long, leisurely walks in the early evening after her day’s work was done. Sometimes she called on old friends and often visited nearby St James’s Church to hear the evening services, but when it was very cold or when she was feeling too tired to take her walk, she would sit in her room and take up her embroidery, although the poor light afforded by the flickering gas-mantle made it rather difficult for her. Nora lived her life the way she wanted to and had grown used to her employer’s ways and increasingly black moods. She could understand and sympathise with him over the sad loss of his wife but would confront and remonstrate with him when he came down too heavily on his children, for which they were grateful.
George Galloway owned a pony-and-trap which he entrusted to a livery stable just behind the square, where the ostler kept both animal and contraption in good condition and ready for use. Often Galloway would knock the stable-owner up late in the evening or early in the morning as the mood took him and ride out in his gig. It was a source of great pleasure to him to sit in the upholstered seat and flick on the reins to send the animal at a fast trot through the streets of Bermondsey. He sometimes took the conveyance down to his yard in Page Street although more often than not he walked the short distance. On occasions when the loss of Martha weighed heavily upon him and a black mood descended, Galloway would sit in his large front room with the curtains drawn and consume a bottle of Scotch whisky. Mrs Flynn recognised the signs of an approaching drinking bout and left him alone in his grief, making sure that the boys and Josephine were kept out of the way.
One night in late autumn as Nora stood in the kitchen cleaning a pan with a scouring pad, she knew that the confrontation she had been expecting for some time now was about to happen. Geoffrey was sixteen and beginning to find his feet. He no longer seemed to have any fear of his father. He was due to leave school soon, and had recently spoken to her of his desire to go into engineering. When the boy had come in earlier that evening and said he wanted to speak with his father, Nora had tried to put him off. She had warned him that his father had shut himself in his room with a bottle of whisky but Geoffrey would not heed her.
‘I’ve decided on engineering, Nora. It’s what I want to do,’ he had said forcefully. ‘I don’t want to follow Father into the business. He runs it the way he wants to, and there’d be no changing things. Maybe if he was older it’d be different. Maybe then I’d be allowed a free rein. As it is now, I’d be little more than his clerk.’
Nora shrugged her shoulders and gave a resigned sigh. There would have been no use in saying any more. The boy was like his father in his determination, and a trial of wills was inevitable.
In the darkened room George and his son faced each other. The gaslamp had been turned down and its pale yellow light played on the iron figures along the high mantelshelf. The fire had been left to burn low although there was a filled coal-scuttle beside the grate, and the room smelled of stale tobacco smoke. The older man sat a little slumped in his wide leather chair with an open bottle standing on the companion table at his elbow. Geoffrey could see two patches of hectic colour on his father’s broad face, standing out against the dark stubble around his chin. He felt very conscious of the heavy-lidded eyes as they stared out at him.
George held a tumbler of undiluted spirit in his thick, calloused hand and his legs were splayed out against the brass fender. ‘I can’t understand yer sudden change o’ plans,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘Only last week yer told me yer was gonna give it a chance. Yer promised me yer was gonna try. It’s a good respectable business, not one ter be ashamed of.’
; Geoffrey sighed in frustration. ‘Look, Dad, I’m not ashamed of working in the business, it’s just that I’m set on taking up engineering. It’s what I want to do.’
‘I was countin’ on yer comin’ in wiv me,’ George said, a note of bitterness in his voice. ‘I ’ad ter struggle an’ go wivout ter get where I am now. It took a lot of ’ard work an’ deviousness ter build up the firm. I ran the streets, slept under arches, an’ went ’ungry most o’ the time. I’ve felt the pain in me guts when there was no food ter be ’ad. Yer’ve never known the pain of an empty belly, of livin’ on turnips, bacon-bone soup an’ crusts o’ mouldy bread. I don’t want yer ter know. That’s what I sent yer ter that school for. I want yer ter come in wiv me an’ use yer education. There’s a lot of opportunity in the cartage business. Firms are springin’ up all over Bermondsey an’ there’s a lot o’ tonnage that’s gotta be moved.’
Geoffrey met his father’s hard stare. ‘I know I told you I’d give it a try, and I’ve been all through the books like you suggested. I’ve studied the contracts, invoices and order forms. I spent all last Monday afternoon with Mr Gallagher going over the accounts. I spent the whole of the weekend thinking about the business, Dad, and I know I wouldn’t be happy managing that side of it. I know I wouldn’t.’
George swallowed the contents of the tumbler he held in his hand and winced as the spirit burned his throat. He filled the glass with an unsteady hand and placed it on the table beside him.
‘So yer don’t wanna manage that side of it?’ he said, a note of sarcasm in his hoarse voice. ‘Tell me, what do yer wanna do? D’yer wanna go out an’ get the contracts? D’yer wanna tout fer business? Well, I’ll tell yer what yer gotta do - yer gotta learn the business from the bottom. Yer gotta learn ter balance the books an’ order the supplies. Yer gotta know ’ow ter give the work out an’ sort out the problems wiv the carmen. And that’s jus’ ter begin wiv. Then yer gotta know ’ow ter size up a good ’orse an’ buy well. If I’d ’ave made too many bad buys, there’d be no business now. When yer know all there is ter know o’ that side of it, yer’ll need a spell wiv Will Tanner. ’E knows almost as much as I do about ’orses. ’E’s got respect, an’ the carmen know they can’t take ’im on. After a go in the office an’ then six months wiv Tanner, maybe yer’ll be ready ter go out an’ tout fer work. As it stands, I get the contracts ’cos I can trade on me name. Yer’ve gotta earn a name, earn a reputation. It don’t come easy, boy.’
Geoffrey ran his fingers through his thick dark hair and leaned back in his chair. ‘I know what you’re saying, Father,’ he said slowly. ‘I’d be quite willing to start the way you said. I wouldn’t want it any other way if I wanted to come into the business, but I don’t. I want to learn engineering, and that’s the way it is.’
George shook his head sadly. The boy was so like his mother. She had had the same look when she was angry. She had always been dogged and determined when she made her mind up about anything. Geoff had inherited his tenacity from both of them. He was going to be hard to sway. George decided that he should play along for a while. Let the boy see that his father was recognising and understanding his position. After all, he was not seventeen yet. He might change his mind in six months, thought George, without believing it.
‘All right, Geoff,’ he said quietly. ‘I can see yer not ’appy about comin’ in wiv me. There’s no rush ter go inter this engineerin’, is there? The problem is, I’m desperate fer a bit of ’elp wiv the business at the moment so I’d appreciate it if yer could give me a bit o’ yer time ter straighten fings up down at the office. Give it six months, eh? Then, if yer still feel yer should make engineerin’ yer career, I won’t stand in yer way. ’Ow’s that sound?’
Geoff swallowed a sharp reply. As much as he wanted to tell his father there and then that he would not change his mind, he held back. He had gained some measure of acceptance for his plans, and his father had ended up being less hard and aggressive than he might have expected. He seemed a little sad, thought the boy. He was going through one of his bad periods, as Nora had noticed. There would be other times for Geoffrey to assert his will. In the meantime he would try to settle into the business for six months but at the end of that time would make a final decision, he resolved, even if it meant breaking with his father.
Geoffrey looked up from the flickering coals and met his father’s questioning gaze. ‘All right, Dad, I’ll try for six months,’ he said with a deep sigh.
Jack Oxford was employed to do the dirty jobs around Galloway’s stables. He’d been a simpleton since a run-in with a horse in his previous job and was considered harmless by the other workers. He was tall and thin, with stopping shoulders and jet-black hair which hung down to his collar, and his large dark eyes stared out from an angular white face. He seemed to bend from the knees as he walked, and had large hands and feet that looked enormous in the pair of heavy, studded boots he always wore.
Today Jack had swept the yard clean and refilled the sacks of chaff; he had been in amongst the newly arrived horses and mucked out the stalls; he had topped up the drinking trough at the end of the yard with fresh water, and now he felt he had done just about enough for one day. It was time to relax.
Jack idled up to the office and looked in at the window. He had noticed that Galloway’s trap was not in the yard but he knew that the boss often walked to the stables. He could not see Galloway, only Mr Gallagher the accountant, bending over the desk in the far corner. Jack growled to himself. He had taken a dislike to Gallagher ever since he had accidentally sprayed the elderly man with water while hosing down the yard. Gallagher had walked in unexpectedly and been soaked. It was an accident and no lasting harm had been done, but the accountant had tattled to George Galloway who came out of the office and yelled at Jack in front of the carmen. The yard man’s sluggish brain had caught most of the tirade of abuse and he took umbrage at being called a lazy, incompetent bastard. He wasn’t sure what incompetent meant, it was the other word that Jack objected to. There was no need for the boss to fly off the handle. Jack had always done what he was told. It was only when he was chaff-cutting that he took a nap, and then only when the bale was finished.
It made no difference how hard he worked, the boss always shouted at him and made him look silly in front of the men. He was doing it more lately, and usually for no reason. Well, not for much of a reason anyway. Jack decided it was about time he started looking after himself for a change. A little nap was nothing to be ashamed of. Not when all the work was finished. He could do with one right now, in fact.
Jack sauntered away from the office window. The mid-afternoon sun was shining down from a clear sky and felt hot on his head. Too much sun gave Jack a nasty headache, and that was another good reason for him to take a nap. Will Tanner was at the farrier’s, and the carmen would not be back for a good two hours he reasoned as he rubbed his hands together and grinned to himself. He crossed the yard and walked up the long steep ramp to the upper stable. The door to his left led into the chaff-cutting room and Jack strolled through, relishing the thought of settling down in the hay.
Carrie left school in Dockhead late in the afternoon. She was walking home with her friend Sara when she spotted the two Galloway wagons. Soapy Symonds was in the leading cart, his head slumped down on to his chest as he nodded off. Soapy knew that he could rely on the horse to take him home without prompting and had let the reins hang loose. Sharkey’s cart was following behind, his horse nuzzling the tailboard in front as they plodded home to Page Street. Carrie shouted out to Soapy but he did not hear her. Sharkey spotted her as she ran to the kerbside.
‘I s’pose yer wanna lift, do yer?’ he grinned as he jumped down from his seat and lowered the tailboard on its chains.
‘I didn’t ’spect ter see yer,’ Carrie said as Sharkey hoisted the two girls up on to the tailboard.
‘Me an’ Soapy got finished early. There’s a stoppage at the docks,’ he said with a chuckle as he climbed back into the driving seat.
‘I wish my dad worked in the stables or was on the ’orsean’-carts, ’ Sara said, grinning happily at Carrie.
The Tanner girl looked at the pale drawn face of her friend and smiled kindly. ‘Next time my dad takes me ter get the bales of ’ay, I’m gonna ask ’im if yer can come wiv us,’ she said.
‘Would ’e really take me as well?’ Sara asked, her dark-circled eyes lighting up.
‘I ’spect ’e will,’ Carrie said confidently. ‘We can ’ave a lemonade an’ ride up on top o’ the load. It’s really luvverly.’
Sara squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘You’re my bestest friend, Carrie,’ she said, her face beaming.
Carrie suddenly felt a sadness which seemed to clutch at her insides and tighten her throat as she looked into her friend’s pallid face. Sara lived in Bacon Street Buildings and her father, who had been crippled in an accident at the docks, was reduced to selling bits and pieces from a suitcase at the markets. Her mother took in washing and scrubbed floors in an effort to provide for her five children, and as Sara was the eldest she had unavoidably become the household drudge. Life was not very nice for her, Carrie thought, squeezing her friend’s arm in a spontaneous show of sympathy. Well, she was going to make sure Sara accompanied her on the next trip to Wanstead. She would speak to her father about it as soon as she got home.
Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street Page 5