Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street

by Harry Bowling

  ‘I dunno,’ William answered, looking hard at the firm owner. ‘They reckon they’ve got a genuine reason ter complain. Tommy ’Atcher’s put ’is carmen’s wages up an’ word’s got around. The men thought they should’ve got a rise last year an’ now they reckon they’re fallin’ be’ind ovver firms’ carmen.’

  George slipped his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and leaned back in his chair. ‘Who’s their spokesman?’ he asked.

  ‘Scratcher Blackwell,’ William replied. ‘’E asked me ter let yer know the way the men feel, an’ ’e wants ter see yer ternight when ’e gets finished.’

  ‘Oh, ’e does, does ’e? Well, you can tell Scratcher I’m not ’avin’ a union in ’ere. What’s more, I’m not gonna be bullied inter givin’ rises, jus’ because Tommy ’Atcher’s decided ter give in ter ’is men.’

  William stood up quickly. ‘Maybe it’d be better if yer told ’im yerself, George,’ he said, a note of anger in his voice. ‘I’m paid ter look after the ’orses an’ keep the carts on the road. I give out the work an’ do a lot of ovver jobs around ’ere. I’m not paid ter be runnin’ from pillar ter post wiv messages an’ threats.’

  George stared at his foreman for a moment or two, then his face broke into a smile. ‘Sit down, Will,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘All right, I’ll see Scratcher ternight, but I’m not gonna be intimidated. I ain’t ’avin’ the union people comin’ in ’ere tryin’ ter tell me ’ow ter run my business. Yer know me of old, I don’t bow ter threats. Tell me somefink, Will, d’yer fink I should give ’em a rise?’

  William shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s fer you ter decide, George,’ he replied, looking up quickly. ‘One fing yer gotta remember though - those carmen of ours could get better wages workin’ fer ’Atcher or Morgan. If yer wanna keep yer men, yer’ll ’ave ter fink about that.’

  Galloway nodded. ‘All right, I’ll give it some thought. By the way, ’ow’s your Nellie? Does she still bear me a grudge?’

  William was taken aback by the sudden enquiry. It was the first time George had said anything concerning Nellie’s involvement with the women’s protest. ‘Nellie thought she was right ter do what she did,’ he said quickly. ‘She reckoned it was wrong ter send that idiot Oxford out there wiv an ’osepipe. An’ I tell yer somefink else, George - I fink yer was in the wrong too. If she ’adn’t cut that pipe, those women would ’ave got soaked. But as for bearin’ yer a grudge, my Nellie ain’t one for that. I should reckon she’s fergot all about it.’

  George nodded his head slowly. ‘Well, that’s nice ter know,’ he said, a smile playing around his lips. ‘Me an’ you are old friends, Will. Yer do a good job ’ere an’ I wouldn’t wanna lose yer. Now, what about those two lame ’orses? ’Ow are they?’

  William had sensed a veiled threat in his employer’s remark. He knew that their old friendship would not count for much if George wanted to get rid of him.

  ‘I’ve got ’em in the small stable,’ he answered. ‘They’ve both bin sweatin’. It may jus’ be a cold fever. I won’t know fer a day or two.’

  ‘Yer don’t fink it’s the colic, do yer?’

  William shook his head. ‘I don’t fink so. They’re not rollin’ in the stalls an’ there’s no sign o’ blood in the dung. I’m keepin’ me eye on ’em an’ I’m gonna look in ternight. If there’s any turn fer the worse, I’ll get the vet in.’

  Galloway nodded, content to leave the animals’ welfare to his capable foreman. The trouble brewing with the carmen worried him though, and as soon as William had left the office he made a phone call.

  When Sharkey drove back into the yard that evening, he saw that the trap was still there and took his time unhitching his horse. Soon Soapy drove in, closely followed by Scratcher Blackwell, who looked a little anxious as he led his pair of horses to the stable.

  ‘Yer gonna see the ole man ain’t yer, Scratch?’ Soapy asked.

  ‘I’m waitin’ ’til everybody’s in,’ Scratcher replied quickly.

  ‘Don’t take any ole lip, mate. We’re all be’ind yer,’ Sharkey called out loudly as he led his horse to the water trough.

  Scratcher winced, hoping that Sharkey’s comment had not reached the office. He had had second thoughts about volunteering to be the spokesman and Sharkey’s words worried him. It was a small firm by comparison with Tommy Hatcher’s business and Scratcher knew only too well Galloway’s reputation for dealing briskly with troublemakers. The information he had gathered from the union office in Tooley Street did not encourage him very much either. Picketing the yard and stopping Galloway trading would not do him any good if he was out of work, he thought. There was Betty and the two kids to think of. How was she going to manage if he put himself out of work?

  The anxious carman suddenly found that he had no more time for worrying when William walked up to him. ‘The ole man wants ter see yer in the office,’ the yard foreman said, taking him by the arm. ‘Mind ’ow yer go, Scratcher. Take a tip an’ don’t get too stroppy. Yer know ’ow cantankerous ’e can be.’

  Scratcher nodded and hurried across the yard, William’s warning adding to his feeling of dread.

  ‘C’mon in, Blackwell. Sit down,’ Galloway said without looking up.

  Scratcher sat down and clasped his hands together, eyeing the firm owner warily. He had gone over in his mind the argument he was going to use, but now as he sat uncomfortably he felt more than a little worried.

  Suddenly George Galloway swivelled his chair round and leaned back, his fingers playing with the silver watch chain hanging across his chest. ‘Yer wanna see me?’ he said.

  ‘Well, Guv’nor, the men asked me ter come an’ see yer,’ he began quickly. ‘It’s about a rise. They reckon ...’

  ‘What about you? What der you reckon?’ Galloway cut in.

  ‘Well, I, er, I reckon we’re entitled ter get a few bob extra a week. Most o’ the ovver cartage firms ’ave give their carmen a rise,’ Scratcher said spiritedly.

  ‘An’ yer’ve put yerself up as the spokesman?’ Galloway said, still fingering his watch chain.

  The worried carman looked down at his hands, then his eyes went up to meet Galloway’s. ‘The men asked me ter do the talkin’. They wanna get unionised. They reckon we should go the way most o’ the ovver cartage firms ’ave gone.’

  Galloway took his cue from the man’s obvious discomfiture and leaned forward, his eyes boring into Scratcher’s. ‘Yer keep on about what they want an’ what they said-I fink yer’ve bin primin’ ’em up. I reckon yer’ve bin listenin’ ter those troublemakers at the union an’ yer fink yer can put a bit o’ pressure on.’

  Scratcher shook his head. ‘I’m jus’ a spokesman,’ he answered.

  Galloway took out his watch and glanced at it. The phonecall he had made to the union office had reassured him. ‘Let me tell yer what I’m prepared ter do, Blackwell,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m puttin’ the men’s wages up by ’alf a crown a week. As fer joinin’ the union . . . there’s gonna be no union in this yard, yer can tell the men that from me. Oh, an’ anuvver fing. I don’t care fer troublemakers. Yer can finish the week out. Yer leave Friday.’

  Scratcher stood up, his face flushed with shock. ‘Yer mean I’m sacked?’ he gasped.

  ‘That’s right. That’s exactly what I mean,’ Galloway said derisively, swivelling round to face his desk.

  The shocked carman walked out of the office and crossed the yard to his waiting workmates. ‘Yer’ve got ’alf a crown a week,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘An’ I’m out the door.’

  ‘’E can’t do that!’ Sharkey shouted.

  ‘Well, ’e ’as,’ Scratcher replied.

  ‘What we gonna do about it?’ Soapy asked, looking around for support.

  The rest of the men were silent. Lofty Russell looked down at his feet. ‘What can we do? If we try anyfing the ole bastard’ll sack the lot of us,’ he moaned.

  The men shuffled about uncomfortably, shaking their heads. Scratcher’s brother Fred su
ddenly rounded on Soapy. ‘You was the one who wanted ’im ter go an’ see Galloway,’ he said, glaring. ‘You was the one who said the men was gonna back ’im. Well, c’mon then. Let’s see yer back ’im now.’

  Soapy averted his eyes. ‘I’ll back ’im if the rest will,’ he said unconvincingly.

  ‘Well, what about the rest of yer?’ Fred cried, his face dark with anger.

  ‘I didn’t want any part o’ this,’ Sid Bristow said, waving his hand as he walked away from the group.

  ‘I can’t afford ter be out o’ collar,’ Lofty Russell said. ‘I’ve got eight kids ter fink about.’

  ‘What about you, Sharkey?’ Fred called out, glaring at the tall carman.

  Sharkey shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s no good unless we all stick tergevver. They won’t back yer, Scratch,’ he said, nodding in the direction of Lofty and Sid who were walking away from the group.

  Fred Blackwell suddenly turned on his heel and stormed over to the office. ‘Oi! What’s your game?’ he barked as he stepped through the open door.

  Galloway stood up, his bulk dwarfing the slightly built carman who faced him angrily. ‘I’ve jus’ sacked a troublemaker, that’s my game,’ he growled.

  Fred Blackwell glared up at the firm’s owner, trembling with temper. ‘I’ve worked fer some nasty bastards in my time,’ he sneered, ‘but you take the prize. Yer fink yer can ride roughshod over yer workers, an’ if they as much as walk in yer light yer sack ’em. Well, let me tell yer, Galloway, yer gonna come ter grief before long. Somebody’s gonna stand up ter yer one day, an’ I ’ope I’m around ter see it. Yer can stick yer job up yer arse! There’s ovver jobs around. I won’t starve.’

  He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office.

  1905

  Chapter Seven

  Carrie Tanner pulled the collar of her coat up around her ears as she walked quickly along Spa Road on her way to work. A cold early morning wind whipped up the brittle brown leaves from the gutter and sent them swirling along the street as she passed the council depot. Roadsweepers were pushing their barrows out of the yard and she saw the water cart drive out, with the carman clicking his tongue at the horse to hurry it on. The sight of the horse-and-cart awoke memories, and Carrie’s face became serious as she turned into Neckinger and walked along past the leather factories to her job at Wilson’s.

  It seemed only yesterday that Sara Knight had given her a present of a small, fan-shaped marcasite brooch and she had handed her friend a box containing three lace handkerchiefs as they left school for the last time. It was nearly nine months ago now, she recalled, and in that time she had seen Sara only on odd occasions. They had vowed to stay friends and go out together in the evenings and at weekends but it had been difficult. Sara seemed to be a prisoner in her own home since her father had gone into the sanatorium and she had had to take on the mantle of breadwinner. Her mother still did early morning cleaning when she was able, although from what Sara said she seemed to be getting weaker and was often confined to bed with a bad chest.

  It was not very easy in her own home either, Carrie allowed. Her father seemed to be working harder than ever at the yard since the young Geoffrey Galloway had come into the business. He returned home exhausted and fell asleep every evening after he had finished his tea. George Galloway was spending less time at the yard now and more time on his other ventures, and the young man was learning the business. Carrie’s father was having to make decisions for him and take the blame if things went wrong, which had happened on more than one occasion recently. There had been the fever which struck down the horses and all but paralysed the business. Then there was the trouble over Jack Oxford - Carrie had heard her parents talking about how he’d once bungled a telephone message and almost lost Galloway a lucrative contract. It appeared that Mr Galloway had wanted to sack the yard man a long while ago but her father had managed to talk him out of it. There was also the terrible time when her favourite horse Titch had become ill and died. Carrie remembered how she had cried when the box van drew up and she watched from the upstairs window while poor Titch was winched up and into the van by ropes that were tied to his legs. And just after that young Danny took ill with pneumonia and pleurisy and almost died. James had been ill too with scarlet fever, and had been taken to the fever hospital. Of the three boys only the quiet and studious Charlie seemed to stay well, she thought, hoping uneasily that the future would not bring more worries and troubles.

  As she reached the factory where she worked, Carrie remembered fondly the times when she had gone on those trips with her father. Now the hay was delivered to the yard and things would never be the same. She sighed to herself as she entered the factory and slipped her time-card into the clock.

  Wilson’s was a busy firm of leather-dressers. Hides and skins were cured and dyed at the factory and Carrie worked on the top floor. Her job was to hang the heavy hides over stout wooden poles and to stretch the skins on frames. It was heavy, tiring work for which she was paid fifteen shillings a week, much better than the money Sara earned as a sackmaker, Carrie had to admit. At least the factory was airy and conditions there not as bad as in some of the other firms in the area. Her parents had been apprehensive when she told them about the job, but they realised that the alternative was for her to work in one of the food factories or go into service, where the money was very poor and she would have to live in as well.

  At the factory Carrie worked alongside Mary Caldwell, a short, plump girl of seventeen who had dark frizzy hair and peered shortsightedly through thick spectacles. Mary was strong and agile for her size, and she had an infectious laugh that helped to brighten the day for Carrie. Mary spent most of her free time reading and it was she who explained to Carrie about the growing suffragette movement. She often went to their meetings and had been reprimanded on more than one occasion for sticking up posters and leaflets in the factory. Although she had a pleasant nature, Mary got angry at the disparaging remarks made about the movement by some of the other factory girls.

  ‘They don’t understand, Carrie,’ she said as the two threw a large wet hide over a high pole. ‘Those women are fightin’ fer all of us. We should ’ave the vote. I wanna be able ter vote when my time comes. We gotta make those stupid people in Parliament listen. Until we do we’re gonna be exploited, that’s fer certain.’

  Carrie wiped her hands down her rubber apron and took hold of another hide. ‘My mum said she don’t worry about votin’,’ she remarked. ‘She said she leaves it ter me dad. ’E knows best, she reckons.’

  Mary peered at her workmate through her steamy spectacles. ‘That’s where yer mum’s wrong, Carrie,’ she replied. ‘Men vote fer what suits them, an’ a lot of ’em don’t bovver ter find out what they’re votin’ for anyway. When women get the vote they’ll change fings, you wait an’ see. ’Ere, I’ll give yer some leaflets if yer like. Yer can read all about what the movement stands for, an’ maybe yer can come wiv me ter one o’ the meetin’s.’

  Carrie nodded as she helped Mary pull another wet hide from the trolley; her workmate made it all sound sensible to Carrie. Until now all the stories she had heard about those smart women who chained themselves to railings or threw themselves down on the steps of government buildings made her feel that it was a futile and silly campaign, but Mary’s argument began to make her think. After all, it was the women in Page Street who had stopped Galloway running his horses along the street and putting the children in danger of being trampled. Her own mother had taken part, although she did not seem to have time for the suffragettes. Maybe she should find out more about the movement and go along with Mary to one of the meetings? It would be exciting to see those well-dressed women chaining themselves up and addressing large gatherings.

  ‘I’ll bring the leaflets in termorrer,’ Mary said as they leaned against the trolley to catch their breath. ‘I’ve got loads of ’em. ’Ere, by the way, Carrie, fancy comin’ wiv me this dinner time? I’ve promised ter put a poster up outside the council de
pot.’

  Carrie grinned. ‘All right. We won’t get arrested though, will we?’

  Mary laughed. ‘Not if we’re quick!’

  The morning seemed to pass slowly. When the factory whistle sounded at noon, the girls all trooped down to the ground floor where they sat in the yard to eat their lunch. Mary ate her thick brawn sandwich quickly and drank cold tea from a bottle. Carrie finished her cheese sandwich and gulped down the fresh, creamy milk she had bought on her way to work.

  ‘C’mon, Carrie, we’ll ’ave ter be quick,’ said her friend, getting up and pushing her glasses up on to the bridge of her nose.

  The two slipped out of the factory and walked quickly towards the council depot. Outside the gates a few men were standing around, leaning against the railings and talking together. A few yards further on there was a large notice board fixed to the railings. When they reached it, Mary took a large poster from beneath her long coat. Without hesitating she tore down a notice of coming elections and spread out her notice in its place.