Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street

by Harry Bowling

  The carts swung into Page Street and as they slowed at the firm’s gates Carrie and Sara jumped down. The Tanner girl stood beside her front door until her friend reached the end of the turning, then after exchanging waves she went into the house.

  Once inside the yard the two carmen unhitched their horses and led them to the watering trough to let them drink their fill before settling them into the stalls. When the empty carts had been manhandled out of the way back up against the end wall, and the harness hung in the shed, Soapy and Sharkey walked up to the office and peered in.

  ‘Seen Will Tanner?’ Soapy asked, scratching the back of his head.

  Horace Gallagher looked up from the ledger and peered over his thick-lensed spectacles at Soapy. ‘He’s at the farrier’s. I don’t know when he’ll be back,’ he said irritably.

  Soapy looked at Sharkey and pulled a face. ‘Let’s sort dopey Jack out, Sharkey. ’E might ’ave some tea brewin’,’ he said, grinning.

  The two sauntered from the office over to the rickety shed at the end of the yard and looked in. The place was a mess, with brooms and buckets scattered around everywhere. On the bench beneath the dust-covered window was an assortment of well-worn harness straps that the yard man was in the process of repairing. Of Jack Oxford there was no sign.

  ‘P’raps the lazy ole sod’s takin’ a nap, Soapy,’ Sharkey said, aiming a kick at the nearest bucket.

  ‘Let’s go up the loft. That’s where ’e’ll be, it’s a dead cert,’ Soapy replied.

  The two carmen walked up the ramp and entered the chaff store. The belt-driven chaff-cutting contraption had been installed by George Galloway after he had seen a month’s bills for feedstuffs. It was driven by a leather belt which ran from the flywheel of a steam engine housed in the shed below. The cutter was a large, square contraption with revolving blades. From its funnel chopped hay was spewed out into sacks. Around the machine there were a few bales of uncut hay and in one corner loose stalks had been piled into a heap. Bedded down in them was Jack Oxford. He was lying on his back, snoring loudly, his cap pulled over his face and his hands clasped together on his chest.

  ‘Look at the lazy, dopey ole git,’ Soapy said, picking up a piece of wood that was resting against the cutter.

  Sharkey grabbed Soapy’s arm and put a finger to his lips. ‘’Ere, let’s ’ave a lark. C’mon.’

  Soapy followed his friend back down the ramp, puzzlement showing on his hawklike features. ‘Where we goin’?’ he asked.

  Sharkey hunched up his broad shoulders and grinned evilly as he pushed his cap on to the back of his head. ‘We’re gonna give Oxford a spruce-up.’

  The scheming carman led the way back to the shed and rummaged around Jack Oxford’s bits and pieces until he found what he was looking for. Then, with the giggling Soapy hard on his heels, he marched back to the stable and walked quietly up the ramp.

  Jack Oxford was still snoring loudly in the hay. When a coating of leather preservative was brushed across his forehead, he merely grunted. The second stroke was applied along his stubbled cheek. He waved an imagined insect away with a sweep of his hand. A few more strokes were deemed enough to finish the job on the by now uncomfortable yard man, who turned over on to his side and began scratching his painted ear.

  The sound of horses being led into the yard sent the two carmen hurrying from the loft. As they came down the ramp, they saw William Tanner.

  ‘What are you two doin’ ’ere?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘We couldn’t get in the docks fer the second load. There’s a stoppage or somefink,’ Soapy replied, standing in front of Sharkey who had the tin of preservative hidden behind his back.

  ‘Well, take these two an’ bed ’em down, then yer can go,’ William said, walking away to the office. As he reached the door, he turned towards the two grinning carmen. ‘’Ave yer seen Jack Oxford?’ he called out.

  The two shook their heads and walked off with the newly shod horses, grinning at each other like a couple of children.

  Nellie Tanner was in the scullery doing the washing up while Carrie stood beside her drying the plates, a miserable expression on her pretty face.

  ‘But Sara’s my best friend, an’ she’s never even bin on an ’orse-an’-cart,’ she said plaintively.

  Nellie sighed irritably. ‘Look, Carrie, yer farvver shouldn’t really take you wiv ’im, let alone ’alf the street. S’posin’ somefing ’appened? I mean, there could be an accident or somefink.’

  ‘But it’s not ’alf the street, Mum,’ Carrie persisted. ‘It’s only Sara, an’ nuffink bad would ’appen. She’d be no trouble. She’s so poor, an’ she stays away from school lots o’ times ter look after ’er bruvvers an’ sisters. I’m only askin’ fer Sara, nobody else.’

  Nellie put down the last of the plates and undid her apron-strings, leaning back against the copper. ‘Yer say Sara’s poor? We’re all poor. All right, yer farvver’s got a regular job, but there’s no spare money comin’ in this ’ouse, let me tell yer. It’s a job ter manage, what wiv food an’ clothes, an’ we still ’ave ter pay rent, even though Mr Galloway owns this ’ouse. Everybody round ’ere’s poor. It’s ’and ter mouth fer all of us, luv, so don’t go gettin’ the idea that we’re better off than everybody else. Some’s jus’ poorer than ovvers.’

  ‘Well, I fink Sara’s family are poorest of all,’ Carrie said, gathering up the dried plates and placing them in the cupboard. ‘She ’ad no coat on yesterday when it was chilly an’ she ’ardly brings anyfink ter school. I don’t fink she’s ever tasted lemonade, an’ when she come ’ome wiv me on the back o’ Mr Morris’s van she was so excited. She’s nice.’

  Nellie bit back an angry reply and said quietly, ‘Yer know yer shouldn’t go ridin’ on the back o’ those carts, Carrie. I’ve told yer before, yer could fall off. An’ what would Sara’s muvver say if she knew she was ridin’ on them wiv yer?’

  Carrie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t fink she would say anything. She don’t treat Sara very nice, what wiv makin’ ’er do all that work indoors.’

  Nellie sighed deeply, not really knowing how to reply to her young daughter. Carrie was a caring, thoughtful girl who was saddened and upset by the poverty around her, and Nellie knew there was nothing she could do to protect her from it. She was going to learn a lot more about heartache and sadness as she grew up.

  ‘Yer gotta understand, Carrie, Mrs Knight ’as ter work ’ard, what wiv Mr Knight being the way ’e is,’ she said slowly. ‘Sara’s gotta ’elp out in the ’ome. After all, she is the eldest, an’ don’t ferget the youngest is only a few months old.’

  Carrie sighed. ‘Well, I’m still gonna ask Dad if she can come wiv us next time,’ she said firmly.

  Nellie shook her head in resignation as Carrie walked out of the scullery. Just like her father, she told herself with a smile. Once she made up her mind, there was no shifting her.

  As Nellie started to fill the copper with fresh water, she suddenly began to wonder what sort of a reception the army would get the following day.

  Chapter Four

  The Kings Arms stood on the corner of Page Street and was managed by Alec Crossley and his wife Grace. Alec was a tubby character with a bald head, a ruddy face, and a liking for brandy which made his face flush up like a beacon. Grace, on the other hand, remained sober and took charge of the pub on the frequent occasions when Alec had had too much of his favourite beverage. She was a large, jolly woman with an infectious laugh. Her blonde hair was worn piled up on top of her head. The Crossleys kept a happy pub and had installed a snug bar where the local women congregated for a drink and a chat in comfort, safe in the knowledge that they were not seen as tarts because they dared enter a man’s domain. The snug bar was the women’s own little haven where men did not intrude. It was Grace’s idea and she served the women herself. There was a saloon bar too at the Kings Arms which was carpeted and tastefully furnished, but almost all of the local folk used the public where a piano and round iron tables s
tood on well-scrubbed floorboards.

  Soapy and Sharkey sat together in the public bar chuckling at the little joke they had played on the unfortunate yard man. ‘Wait till ’e looks in a mirrer,’ Sharkey laughed. ‘’E’ll fink ’e’s got yeller fever.’

  Soapy almost choked on his beer at the thought. ‘Jack Oxford wouldn’t look in a mirrer,’ he spluttered. ‘’E couldn’t stand the sight of ’imself. Anyway, I don’t fink they ’ave mirrers in the doss-’ouse where Jack stays. If they did ’e wouldn’t cut ’imself so much when ’e shaves. Ain’t yer ever noticed ’ow many bits o’ fag paper the silly bleeder ’as stuck round ’is clock in the mornin’s?’

  Sharkey grinned as he picked up his pint of ale. ‘Jack Oxford gets those cuts from the blunt carvin’ knife ’e uses,’ he replied. ‘One o’ these days ’e’s gonna cut ’is froat, that’s fer certain.’

  Soapy wiped the froth away from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘’Ere, Sharkey, d’yer reckon we should’ve used that dye stuff?’ he wondered aloud. ‘The poor sod might be stained fer life.’

  Sharkey shook his head emphatically. ‘Nah. It’ll wear orf in a few weeks. Anyway, it won’t ’urt ’im. That stuff don’t do the ’arness any ’arm, an’ it’ll certainly be an improvement on ole Jack. Bloody ’ell, Soapy, ’e’s enough ter frighten the daylights out o’ the kids when ’e’s normal. Yer should ’ave ’eard ole Fanny Johnson go orf at ’im. ’E made ’er baby cry when she come by the yard the ovver day, an’ she told ’im ter piss orf out of it. Mind yer, ’e was only tryin’ ter make the little mite laugh. Trouble was Jack was dribblin’ all over the pram.’

  Soapy finished his beer and pushed the empty glass away from him. ‘Well I’m orf ’ome,’ he announced.

  As the two made to leave Alec Crossley leaned across the counter. ‘You lads look pleased wiv yerselves,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yeah, we bin doin’ a bit o’ sprucin’ up in the yard,’ Sharkey told him straight-faced. ‘Turned out a treat it did.’

  Alec pointed to the leather dye on Soapy’s hands. ‘Yer wanna be careful o’ that stuff,’ he said. ‘I knew a bloke who got dye splashed all over ’is face once. Terrible face ’e ’ad.’

  ‘Did ’e?’ Sharkey replied, giving Soapy a worried glance as they left the pub.

  When Jack Oxford roused himself he felt a tightness in his face and he scratched at his chin. ‘Bloody gnats,’ he grumbled aloud as he stood up and brushed himself down. He could hear his name being called and peered out of the window down into the yard.

  ‘Jus’ tidyin’ up,’ he called down, looking to make sure there were no telltale pieces of straw stuck to his clothes.

  ‘Get orf ’ome, Jack, I wanna lock up,’ the voice called out.

  Jack Oxford hurried down the ramp, still scratching at his irritated face. As he walked past the office, the accountant came out.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Gallagher gasped, adjusting his spectacles in disbelief.

  Jack shrugged his shoulders and walked out into Page Street, intending to go straight to the fish shop in Jamaica Road. Florrie Axford was standing at her front door pondering over just where she would place the women for the demonstration when the yard man walked by.

  ‘Oh my Gawd!’ she gasped, following the retreating man with her bulging eyes.

  Jack frowned in puzzlement. ‘What’s the matter wiv everybody?’ he said aloud as he hurried across the busy main thoroughfare.

  The smell of frying fish and chips made him lick his lips. As he walked through the door of the shop an old lady gave him a stare and hurried out. The shopkeeper was shovelling hot chips from the fryer into a container and did not look up as Jack approached the counter.

  ‘Give us a pen’orth o’ cod an’ a ’a’porth o’ chips,’ he said, slapping down the coins on the high counter.

  The proprietor served up Jack’s order into a sheet of newspaper. As he wrapped it and put the bundle down on the counter, he looked up. His mouth dropped open and his eyes stared out at his customer in shocked surprise. ‘Christ Almighty!’ he gasped, snatching up the coins and backing away a pace.

  Jack picked up his parcel of fish and chips and was about to give his food a liberal sprinkling of vinegar when the shopowner snatched the bottle away.

  ‘Yer better get out o’ me shop,’ he said quickly, his voice rising. ‘Go on, ’oppit!’

  The yard man walked to the door and turned back, wondering what he could have done to upset the shopkeeper.

  ‘Go on, I told yer ter ’oppit!’ the man said, holding the wire scoop up in a threatening manner.

  ‘Sod yer then,’ Jack called out as he turned on his heel and walked off towards the lodging-house in Tower Bridge Road, picking at the fish and chips as he went. Faces turned as he walked by and one old lady crossed herself as she passed him.

  Jack sat down on a low wall to finish his meal. Passers-by stared at him and gave him a wide berth. Only a mangy dog warily came near him and sat down, hoping for a scrap of food to come its way. Jack threw the animal a piece of crackling but the dog merely sniffed at it and trotted off.

  By the time he had reached his lodging-house, Jack was totally perplexed. As he walked through the open door his way was barred by a frightened-looking man holding up his hands.

  ‘Yer can’t come in ’ere!’ he cried, backing away.

  ‘Why not?’ Jack said, scratching his itching face.

  ‘’Cos I’m full up,’ the lodging-house keeper said quickly, shutting the door in his face.

  At seven-thirty sharp on Friday morning George Galloway drove up in his pony-and-trap. William had already opened up the yard and some of the carts were leaving. George was wearing his brown tweed suit and brown derby hat, as was his custom on selling days. When he had parked the trap he walked into the office and seated himself at his desk.

  His yard foreman was giving instructions to one of the carmen. ‘Mornin’ Guv’nor,’ he said, looking over.

  ‘Mornin’, Will. Can yer get Oxford ter swill the yard down an’ put the broom over it? I want the place clean an’ tidy when the army arrive.’

  William walked to the office door and looked away up the street before replying. ‘’E’s not in yet, George,’ he said. ‘It’s unusual fer ’im. Usually he’s waitin’ at the gate fer me ter open up.’

  Sharkey and Soapy were making heavy work of harnessing their horses in the hope that the victim of their jape would soon appear. Their dalliance had not gone unnoticed by the firm’s owner.

  ‘What’s them two ’angin’ about for, Will? They should ’ave bin out o’ the yard ten minutes ago,’ he growled.

  As he went to the door, William caught sight of Jack Oxford just coming into the yard. ‘Gawd ’elp us!’ he gasped, staring at the yard man’s bright yellow face. ‘What yer done ter yerself?’

  Sharkey and Soapy sat up in their seats, laughing loudly. ‘It’s the dreaded fever!’ Soapy shouted.

  ‘Bring out yer dead! Keep ’im away from the ’orses!’ Sharkey called out.

  William gave the two carmen a blinding look and waved them out of the yard. He recalled the twosome’s strange behaviour the previous evening and suspected that they were behind Jack’s strange appearance. ‘Come in the office,’ he said, taking the yard man’s arm and leading him to a cracked mirror propped up on the desk top.

  When Jack saw his reflection he backed away from the mirror in disbelief. ‘What is it?’ he cried, staring at William in shock.

  ‘I’d say yer got a dose o’ black swine fever,’ George said, winking at William. ‘D’yer feel sick or sweaty?’

  The yard man shook his head vigorously. ‘I wondered why everybody was lookin’ at me last night,’ he sounded off. ‘I got chucked out o’ the fish shop, an’ they wouldn’t let me sleep at the lodgin’-’ouse. When I went ter the ’orseshoe fer a drink they wouldn’t let me in so I ’ad ter get ole Blind Bill ter go in an’ get me a quart bottle o’ stout. I ’ad ter kip down in the park, that’s why I’m late.’

&nbs
p; George glanced at William, a smirk on his face. ‘I bet it was them two whoresons,’ he whispered, nodding his head in the direction of the yard.

  William shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he answered, trying not to laugh at Jack’s predicament.

  ‘Is it painful?’ George asked, beginning to enjoy himself.

  ‘It’s bloody itchy,’ Jack replied, scratching at his face again.

  ‘Um. That’s always the trouble wiv black swine fever. I tell yer, it can be pretty nasty,’ George pronounced, looking suitably serious.