Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street

by Harry Bowling

  ‘There’s no need ter fank us, Annie,’ Florrie said quietly. ‘Yer’d be the first ter give if yer was able. We all look after our own round ’ere. It’s the only way we can survive, an’ bloody survive we will.’

  Nellie had been choking back her own emotions as she saw the look of gratitude and wonderment on the white face of Annie Knight. Now she swallowed hard. ‘Look, Mrs Knight, I was finkin’,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if Sara mentioned it ter yer, but my Will ’as ter collect bales of ’ay from the country now an’ again an’ ’e usually takes my Carrie wiv ’im. ’E was gonna take your Sara too but she told my gel she wouldn’t be able ter go, what wiv yer bein’ poorly. I was wonderin’ if yer’d let ’er go? I could come in an’ keep an eye on the little ones till she gets back in the evenin’.’

  Annie was still trying to comprehend her good fortune and her eyes were bright with surprise as she nodded. ‘It’d make a luvverly change fer her. She ’as worked ’ard an’ she never complains. That’s if yer really don’t mind?’

  Florrie reached out and touched Annie’s arm. ‘I’ll come wiv Nellie too,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’ll be no trouble, will it, Nell?’

  Annie leaned back on her pillow and sighed deeply. ‘I was feelin’ very low when I woke up this mornin’,’ she said in a husky voice. ‘The kids was bawlin’ an’ young Sara was strugglin’ ter keep ’em quiet an’ get me breakfast. I didn’t care if I lived or died right then, but now I’m feelin’ much better. Yer mus’ fank all those people fer me, gels. An’ fank yer both fer all yer kindness. I’ll never ferget it.’

  The women sat chatting for some time, then, as they said their goodbyes and made their way out into the kitchen, Nellie and Florrie exchanged glances. The two young children were sitting cross-legged in front of the fire-guard as Sara shared out the dolly mixtures between them.

  The two women walked out of the flat and made their way back down into the dark street. It was not until they had turned into Page Street that they broke silence.

  ‘Did yer see the look on those kids’ faces when we came out?’ Nellie said to her friend.

  Florrie nodded. ‘It was somefink ter see, wasn’t it?’ she said quietly.

  Chapter Six

  Sharkey Morris and his friend Soapy Symonds were sitting together in Charlie’s coffee shop in Tooley Street. When the café owner’s wife Beattie slapped down two thick toasted teacakes on the grey marble table, Sharkey opened his and looked at the cheese filling before taking a bite.

  ‘I tell yer, Soapy, I reckon we should ’ave a word wiv Will Tanner first,’ he said through a mouthful of food. ‘Yer know what the ole man’s bin like lately. P’raps if Tanner talks to ’im, ’e might cough up.’

  Soapy pulled a face and wiped the hot butter from his full moustache with the back of one dirty hand. ‘I dunno,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Since that turn-out wiv Will’s missus, ’e ain’t bin the best o’ pals wiv Galloway. Still, it might be the right way ter go about it at that. One fing’s fer sure, the ole man’s gotta know ’ow we feel. Tommy ’Atcher pays ’is men better wages than Galloway, an’ even Charlie Morgan’s carmen get bonuses.’

  Sharkey snorted. ‘I should reckon so too! The stench o’ those skins is enough ter make a bloke ill. They ’ave ter swill their carts out every night before they go ’ome.’

  ‘Well, that’s as may be,’ Soapy argued. ‘What I’m sayin’ is, we should put in fer a rise now. We should go in fer ’alf a crown a week.’

  Sharkey took a large bite of his teacake and washed it down with a gulp of tea. ‘Ten years I’ve worked fer Galloway,’ he said, burping loudly, ‘I’m the oldest servin’ carman ’e’s got since ole Bill Wimbush retired, and I ain’t never known ole Galloway ter cough up wiv a rise unless we asked fer it. Tommy ’Atcher’s carmen get a rise wivout askin’. If I could get a job there, I’d go termorrer. They wouldn’t ’ave me there, though. Not since I clouted ole Spanner at the docks.’

  Soapy had often heard the story about Sammy Spanner, Hatcher’s shop steward, and queue-jumping at the docks, and each time it was different. ‘Well, we gotta do somefink. It’s a bloody pittance Galloway pays us,’ he moaned. ‘We should get one of us ter be a shop steward an’ then we’d get fings sorted out.’

  Sharkey grunted. ‘An’ who we gonna get? There’s only eight regular carmen an’ I ain’t gonna do it fer one.’

  ‘Me neivver,’ Soapy replied. ‘Yer can’t expect those two new blokes ter do it. What about Sid Bristow? ’E seems ter get on wiv Galloway all right.’

  Sharkey Morris shook his head. ‘Sid’s got a nice little job wiv the sack people, an’ I fink ’e earns a bit on the side. I don’t reckon fer one minute ’e’s gonna be interested.’

  ‘What about Lofty Russell?’ Soapy persisted. ‘’E seems a sensible sort o’ bloke. I ’eard ’im goin’ on about the Boer War the ovver day. ’E seemed ter know what ’e was talkin’ about.’

  Once again Sharkey shook his head. ‘’E’s got eight kids. Yer can’t expect somebody wiv eight Gawd-ferbids ter stick ’is neck out.’

  ‘Well, that only leaves the Blackwell bruvvers. I wonder if they’d be interested,’ Soapy Symonds said hopefully.

  This time Sharkey was silent for a few moments. ‘Fred won’t, ’e’s too quiet. Scratcher might though,’ he said, thoughtfully stroking his chin. ‘’E don’t seem ter let fings get on top of ’im. Remember when that ’orse bit ’is bruvver Fred an’ ’e punched it in the chops? I was sure that nag was gonna drop when I saw its front legs splay out an’ its eyes go all funny.’

  Soapy looked pleased. ‘Right then,’ he said cheerfully, ‘when I get back ternight I’m gonna see if I can catch Scratcher. I’ll put it to ’im an’ see what ’appens.’

  Jack Oxford was busy cutting chaff. Occasionally he stroked his still tender stubbled face. It was now two weeks since he had been led into Will Tanner’s house and subjected to the turpentine cure. It had been a painful experience but it had worked. The first application had stung his face but hard rubbing with a house flannel produced results. When he looked into the mirror which Nellie held up to his face, he saw that the bright yellow colour had become dull and there were patches of his own natural colour showing through. Jack had subjected himself to another course of treatment before he was satisfied that the yellow colouring was gone. The problem was that the skin of his face had become very tender and he had had to stop shaving for the past week. Now, as he pressed down the hay into the cutting machine, the yard man was feeling the need to take a nap, but the thought of being attacked by insects and catching straw blight again deterred him from settling down in the hay.

  As he finished the remaining bale and turned off the machine, Jack heard his name being called. He peered out of the round loft window.

  ‘Get yerself down ’ere, Jack,’ William called up to him. ‘I’ve gotta go out an’ there’s nobody in the office.’

  When William left the firm the yard man made himself comfortable in the office chair and stared at the phone. He had been instructed in what to do should the contraption ring but he felt a little nervous. He had never used a telephone and never learned to read and write. He would have to memorise any messages that came through and that was the main reason he was nervous. He knew that his memory wasn’t too good, and if the message was a long one he would be in trouble.

  The place was quiet, bright sunlight was shining down into the yard, and Jack started to relax a little. Maybe the phone wouldn’t ring, he hoped. Maybe he could settle down for a little nap before Tanner got back. He eased himself back in the comfortable chair and placed his feet up on the open roll-top desk.

  The loud ringing in the yard man’s ears made him jump and his feet slipped from the desk top. For a few moments he sat rigid in his chair, staring at the telephone, then he stood up and backed away. The thing he had dreaded was happening. Jack bit on his bottom lip. Should he let it ring? No, he would have to answer it, he decided. It might be the boss ringing in with a message, an
d if he did not answer the phone he would be in trouble. He approached the instrument as though the thing might bite him, and with a shaking hand reached out and picked up the earpiece.

  The voice at the other end spoke in a cultured tone. ‘Johnson’s Tanneries here. I’d like to speak to George Galloway, please.’

  Jack looked around him in panic. ‘’E, er, I’m er, Oxford,’ he stuttered.

  ‘He’s in Oxford, you say?’

  ‘No. I’m Oxford. I’m, er, I’m mindin’ the phone ’case it rings, yer see. Who are yer?’

  ‘Well, now the phone has rung, will you kindly go and get Mr Galloway, if you please?’ the voice requested in a sarcastic tone.

  Jack scratched his head and put his mouth closer to the mouthpiece. ‘Mr Tanner’s ’ere but ’e’s ’ad ter go out an’ ’e asked me ter mind the telephone,’ he shouted.

  There was a crackling sound as the caller puffed in exasperation then the measured tone sounded loudly in Jack’s ear. ‘Look, whoever you are, I don’t want to speak to Mr Tanner, and I can’t very well if he’s had to go out, now can I? I would like to speak to Mr George Galloway. Will you go away and get him please, if that is all right with you?’

  Jack was gaining in confidence now that he realised the telephone was not going to bite him. ‘I jus’ told yer, mate, ’e’s gorn out,’ he said boldly.

  ‘No you did not,’ the voice said, sounding angry. ‘You said Mr Tanner went out. Now is Galloway there or isn’t he?’

  ‘Mr Galloway’s not ’ere, but I can take a message,’ Jack said helpfully.

  ‘Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere,’ the voice continued more calmly. ‘This is Mr Forbes of Johnson’s Tanneries. Now have you a pencil handy?’

  ‘What d’yer wanna pencil for?’ Jack asked, frowning.

  ‘Oh my God!’ the voice exclaimed. ‘I don’t need a pencil, you do! Now listen, the message is this: Mr Galloway is to ring me. I need to get his signature on the contract before next Thursday. Is that understood?’

  Jack Oxford nodded.

  ‘Well, is it?’ the caller demanded in a loud voice.

  ‘I’ll tell ’im soon as ’e comes in,’ Jack said, thankful that the message was not too difficult.

  There was a loud click as the phone was slammed down, and for a while Jack stood listening to the burring noise.

  ‘You gorn?’ he shouted into the mouthpiece, and hearing no reply carefully replaced the earpiece on its hook.

  The carts were beginning to return to the yard and William still had not returned. In the meantime, Jack had been reciting the message to himself over and over again. By the time the yard foreman walked into the office, he was sure that he had got it right.

  ‘Any phone calls?’ William asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jack replied, going over the message once more in his head.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Mr Forbes rung the phone from Johnson’s Tanneries,’ Jack began. ‘’E said fer Mr Galloway ter give ’im a ring on Thursday. It’s about the contract what’s gotta be signed.’

  William scribbled the message down on a slip of paper and placed it on Galloway’s desk, then he marched out to confront the carmen who were standing in a group looking very serious about something.

  On Saturday morning Sara Knight arrived at the Tanners’ front door at eight o’clock sharp. She was wearing a long grey dress that had a patch in the bodice and hung loosely over her narrow shoulders. Her lace-up boots were polished and she carried a small parcel under her arm. Her long brown hair had been painstakingly brushed. It shone in the early morning light as she waited for her knock to be answered. Sara had been up since dawn. Already that morning she had cleaned the house and heated the porridge for her two younger brothers. The baby’s rusk had been powdered into a small dish and when she heard the sound of the milkman’s cart on the cobbles, Sara had hurried down to him carrying a jug. She had also cut some cheese sandwiches and wrapped them up in brown paper. The last thing she did before leaving was gently to take the baby from her cot and place her beside her sleeping mother. The tot had stirred then settled down. Sara had picked up the parcel and hurried down into the empty street, her stomach churning with excitement. When she reached the Tanners’ house, she had to take a deep breath before she reached for the knocker.

  When Carrie answered the door, she smiled happily at her friend. ‘Cor, don’t you look nice?’ she said kindly. ‘Me mum said she’ll be leavin’ in a few minutes. Mrs Axford is gonna sit wiv yer mum too, so it’ll be all right.’

  When the two children hurried into the yard, they saw William backing Titch between the shafts. They stood to one side, watching as he hooked up the cob’s harness chains, and when he was satisfied all was ready William strode up and took Sara’s hand.

  ‘Wanna give Titch ’is titbit?’ he smiled, handing her a knob of sugar.

  As she timidly complied the horse bent its head and sucked up the sugar lump into its mouth, leaving Sara’s hand wet. She wiped it down her dress and giggled happily.

  ‘C’mon then up we go,’ William said, hoisting the two girls into the back of the open cart and then leading the horse out into the street. The two friends stood at the front of the cart and waited while he relocked the front gates, then he took the reins in his hand and flicked them over the horse’s back. As the cart picked up speed, William sprang up on to the shafts and into the high dicky seat. The girls held on tightly, smiling excitedly at each other as the cart rattled over the cobblestones and turned into the quiet Jamaica Road. Soon they were passing over Tower Bridge and could see the ships and barges moored beneath them. Above, the blue sky was streaked with cloud and a light breeze carried the smell of the river mud up on to the bridge. Sara’s eyes were wide with excitement and Carrie felt so happy that her friend had been able to come after all. At the far side of the bridge William pulled the cart up beside a water trough and let the horse drink its fill.

  As they continued their journey along through the wide Mile End Road towards Bow, he chatted to the girls and pointed out the places of interest they passed. When they drew level with Bow Church, the two friends settled down in the well of the cart on the two sacks of chaff William had put there for them, and chatted together happily.

  The day had remained fine and warm. Now, with the sun dipping below the high wharves, the tired horse pulled a full load of hay bales past the white stone Tower of London and on to the bridge. William sat slumped in the seat, his hands loose on the slack reins, allowing Titch to travel at his own pace. Above him the two girls lay in the well between the bales, staring up at the evening sky.

  Sara sighed happily and thought of all the things she would be able to talk about when she got back home. It had been a very long journey. It must have been miles and miles, she recalled. They had left the houses and factories behind them and then taken a road that had trees and open fields on either side. They had stopped at a little pub with flowers growing around the door and sat at a table in a lovely garden, and then Carrie’s dad had brought them out glasses of fizzy lemonade. Carrie had opened the brown paper parcel and shared her cheese sandwiches, and then they had left for the farm. It had cows and pigs and geese, whose feathers were all muddy.

  They had held hands as the nice lady at the farm took them to the barn to see the calves. The lady had given them each a glass of milk and biscuits, and before they left Carrie’s dad had climbed on top of the load and made a space for them to lie in. They had climbed up the rickety ladder, each clasping a little bunch of wild flowers they had picked, and then nestled down in the hay to share the last cheese sandwich as the cart pulled out of the farm and drove down the bumpy lane to the main road. There was so much to tell, so much to remember, she thought. As the hay wagon passed the brewery and turned into Tooley Street, Sara felt it had been the happiest day of her life.

  On Monday morning, after the last of the vans had left the yard, George Galloway put his head out of the office door and called out to his yard foreman. William walked in
to the office knowing a row was brewing. George had driven his trap in early that morning and had stood in the office doorway to watch the carts leaving with a stern look on his face.

  ‘Close the door an’ sit down, Will,’ he said, sitting himself at his desk and swivelling round in the chair to face the younger man. ‘Now what’s all this about the carmen ’avin’ a grouse?’

  William had noticed George talking to Sid Bristow earlier and was sure the carman had informed him of the grievance. He took a deep breath. ‘The men wanna see yer about a rise,’ he began. ‘They’ve got themselves a spokesman an’ they wanna join the union.’

  ‘Oh, they do, do they?’ George replied. ‘An’ whose union do they wanna join then? Not that Ben Tillett’s mob, I’ope. ’E’s bin causin’ ructions in the docks.’