Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street

by Harry Bowling

  ‘Hold yer ’and on the bottom of it, Carrie,’ she said, licking a strip of brown sticking-paper.

  Carrie reached up to the high notice board and pressed her hand against the poster which read ‘Votes for Women’ in large black letters.

  Mary was just fixing the last of the corners when they heard the loud voice behind them: ‘’Ello. Bit young fer this sort o’ fing, ain’t yer?’

  The two girls turned to see a large policeman standing there with his hands tucked into his belt.

  ‘D’yer know this is council property?’ he said, looking at them quizzically.

  Mary peered at him through her thick glasses. ‘We ain’t doin’ any ’arm,’ she said spiritedly.

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ the constable replied mockingly, rocking back on his heels. ‘D’yer know yer defacin’ a private notice board, apart from destroyin’ council property?’

  ‘We ain’t destroyed nuffink,’ Mary said, glancing quickly at Carrie.

  ‘What’s that then?’ the policeman said, pointing down at the torn poster at the girls’ feet.

  ‘That’s only an old poster. It ain’t nuffing important,’ Mary replied.

  The constable raised his eyebrows. ‘That ’appens ter be an election notice. What ’ave yer got ter say about that, young lady?’

  Mary’s face was flushed. She adjusted her spectacles and bravely replied, ‘Women should ’ave the vote. Shouldn’t they, Carrie?’

  The Tanner girl nodded, wishing she had never agreed to go with Mary.

  ‘We was only puttin’ one little poster up,’ she said in a quiet voice, glancing coyly at the large guardian of the law.

  The policeman took out his notebook and licked on the stub of a pencil. ‘Right then, let’s ’ave yer names an’ addresses.’

  ‘Freda ’opkins, an’ I live at number seventeen Salisbury Buildin’s, Salisbury Street,’ Mary answered without batting an eyelid.

  The policeman looked at Carrie who was desperately trying to think of a name and address. ‘’Ave you got a name?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m, er, Agatha Brown,’ she said quickly, suddenly remembering the girl she most disliked at school.

  ‘D’yer live anywhere?’

  ‘’Undred an’ two Bacon Street Buildings,’ Carrie blurted out.

  ‘Right. Now I don’t wanna see you two under-aged suffragettes tearin’ down any more council posters, is that quite clear?’ the policeman said, giving the two a stern look. ‘An’ don’t go chainin’ yerselves ter the council railin’s in future, ’cos I might jus’ leave yer there all night.’

  Mary nodded. Carrie merely stared up fixedly at the towering policeman.

  ‘All right then, on yer way,’ he said, holding back a grin.

  The two young protesters left the scene of their misdemeanour and hurried back to the factory. Mary had a satisfied smile on her face. ‘That’s what yer gotta do when yer get caught puttin’ posters up, Carrie,’ she said firmly. ‘They don’t check up - ’ardly, anyway.’

  Carrie’s heart was still beating fast. She glanced at Mary. ‘I ’ope they don’t! We could go ter prison fer givin’ the wrong names.’

  ‘That’s what we gotta be prepared ter do in the movement,’ Mary said proudly. ‘Lots o’ suffragettes go ter prison, an’ they carry on when they come out. I might ’ave ter go ter prison meself.’

  Carrie felt worried as she listened to her workmate. The incident at the council depot had been a frightening experience and she felt she was still a bit young to get herself arrested for the cause. Mary did not seem a bit concerned, and was smiling with satisfaction as they walked back into the factory.

  The men at the depot gates had dispersed but the policeman remained standing in a doorway opposite. He had watched the two young girls depart with a smile on his face. They would no doubt end up chaining themselves to railings, he thought. The one with the glasses seemed very determined. Maybe they had a genuine argument. His wife was always on about women having the right to vote. The policeman sighed and took out his notebook. Smiling wryly to himself, he tore out a page, screwed it up in his fist and dropped it into the gutter. He had had reason to visit Bacon Street Buildings many times and knew that the numbers only went up to sixty-four.

  Geoffrey Galloway was busy sorting through the pile of papers on his desk. He felt depressed. He had bowed to his father’s wishes and gone into the business but it seemed a far cry from what he really wanted to do in life. The five years he had spent at the yard had taught him a lot, although he still had to rely on Will Tanner where practical matters were concerned. True, he had had a good education and the clerical side of the job posed no problems. The accounts too were easy to understand and Horace Gallagher handled that side of it competently enough, although the man seemed to be cracking up physically.

  What troubled Geoffrey was handling problems with the carmen. He knew only too well that he lacked his father’s ruthlessness, and were it not for his yard foreman would have found himself hopelessly lost. William seemed able to keep the men’s grouses to a minimum and sort out the work without much trouble. The horses were always well groomed and fit for work, and the carts were maintained to a good standard. He had spoken to his father about getting in a couple of motor vans but the old man had been against it. He seemed to think horses would always have pride of place in the cartage business, and maybe he was right. Most of the firm’s business was done with local concerns and the journeys were of a short distance. A horse cart was more manoeuvrable in the tight lanes and on the wharf jetties, and with a pair of horses and one of the larger carts a considerable amount of tonnage could be transported.

  Geoffrey tidied up the papers and leaned back in his chair. It was early afternoon and the yard was quiet before the hustle and bustle around five o’clock when the carts rolled back. He could see Jack Oxford crossing the cobbles with a bucket in his hand, and Will Tanner winching up a bale of hay into the loft. The sun was shining brightly and its long rays penetrated the gloom of the office and lit up the dust motes floating in the air. Geoffrey felt trapped in the job, and not a little irritated by his younger brother’s attitude. Frank was nineteen and after he left school had been allowed to go on to college with the old man’s blessing. He had sat for a diploma in accountancy and was now working in the City for a firm of business accountants. Frank was leading an active social life, often visiting the West End with young women on his arm to see the best shows and revues. He had said he was not interested in going into the family business and his father had not shown any anger or disappointment. How different it had been in his case, Geoffrey thought resentfully. He had been pressured into taking over at the yard, with no consideration for what he wanted. Even now, when he had agreed to submit to what was required of him and had proved himself capable, his life was still strictly monitored by the old man. Even Geoffrey’s choice of women had been deemed a subject for discussion with his father, and the two girls he had taken home so far had been met at best with criticism, at worst with outright hostility. Maybe he should have stood out and refused to submit to his father’s wishes, and taken home the sort of girls Frank seemed to socialise with.

  Geoffrey leaned back and sighed. Well, as far as business went, if he was going to stay he would expect to have a bigger say in its running and development, he told himself. He had served his apprenticeship and now he had some ideas of his own to put forward.

  Jack Oxford had finished his chores and was taking a rest in his store shed. He was never disturbed there, summoned usually by a shout from the yard. Inside the shed he had an old armchair with broken springs and horsehair protruding from both arms, and had made himself a cushion from a sack stuffed with straw. The only problem with resting in the shed, Jack rued, was that there was no room to stretch out. As he reclined in the chair with his feet propped up on a littered bench, he was thinking about the yard’s cat. It had crawled away the previous day without eating the supply of fresh catmeat laid out for it and Jack was sure it had gone somewhe
re to have its kittens. He would take a few more minutes’ rest and then make a search. It would most probably have crawled into the small stable where the sick horses were kept in isolation. There had been no horses in there for the past week and cats were clever, he reasoned.

  When the yard man finally made a search he found the cat nestling in the far corner of the small stable beneath a pile of loose straw. It had had a large litter of kittens which all looked healthy. Jack scratched his head and pondered on what he should do. The boss would not permit a family of cats in the yard, and if he found out about the litter would order Jack to drown the kittens. Maybe he could give them away when they were ready to leave their mother. There would be no shortage of takers in the street for a cat that was a good mouser. Their mother was the best mouser he had seen and the kittens would most probably take after her, he reasoned.

  As the tall, gangling man left the stable, he thought about knocking on Florrie Axford’s door to make enquiries. He had never liked the woman very much but had to admit that she knew everyone in the turning and could put the word around. Having to knock on ‘Hairpin’ Axford’s door was preferable to putting the kittens in a bucket of water, he assured himself.

  On his way home that evening the yard man timidly knocked at the door of number 10. When Florrie Axford opened it she looked surprised. ‘What d’yer want?’ she asked, eyeing her visitor warily.

  ‘Sorry ter trouble yer, missus,’ he said, scratching the back of his head. ‘I’ve got kittens, yer see.’

  ‘That’s nice fer yer,’ Florrie said sarcastically. ‘What d’yer want me ter do, feed ’em?’

  ‘I was finkin’ yer might want a cat, or else one o’ the ovver women might. They’ll be good mousers. Their muvver’s the best I’ve seen.’

  Florrie shook her head, wanting to get rid of the man as quickly as possible. ‘They’ve all got cats,’ she said curtly.

  Jack pulled a face. ‘If ole Galloway finds out she’s ’ad kittens, ’e’ll get me ter drown ’em. Bloody shame really.’

  Florrie stroked her chin thoughtfully. ‘I s’pose I could ask around,’ she said. ‘When can they be took away from the muvver?’

  ‘A couple o’ weeks should be all right,’ Jack said, his face brightening up considerably.

  ‘When yer ready, give us a knock an’ I’ll see what I can do,’ said Florrie, stepping back inside the house.

  Jack was feeling better as he walked off along the street, blissfully unaware of what was in store for him.

  On a Thursday evening four of George Galloway’s carmen sat around an iron table in the Kings Arms, engaged in a serious discussion.

  ‘I don’t fink the bloke’s a nark,’ Sharkey said, putting down his drink and wiping the back of his hand across his moustache. ‘I’ve known the silly bleeder fer a few years now, an’ as far as I know ’e’s always minded ’is own business.’

  Soapy Symonds nodded his agreement. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Jack Oxford might look stupid but ’e knows what day o’ the week it is. ’E knows when it’s pay day,’ he chuckled.

  The two carmen sitting facing Sharkey glanced at each other. ‘Well, I dunno about that, but somebody seems to keep the ole man informed,’ one of them said. ‘That soppy git always seems ter be ’angin’ around. ’E talks ter Will Tanner a lot as well.’

  Soapy took another swig from his glass and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘If yer ask me, I’d say it was more likely ter be that Sid Bristow,’ he cut in. ‘’E’s always talkin’ ter Galloway. I reckon it was ’im what put the word in about ole Scratcher Blackwell when we tried to get the union in years back. Bristow wouldn’t back us fer a strike neivver. Yer gotta watch that cowson.’

  Sammy Jackson hunched his broad shoulders and leaned forward over the table, his large, calloused hands clasped around his glass. ‘That was before my time but the old man knew what we was plannin’ an’ ’e warned me about gettin’ involved wiv the union. Somebody must ’ave told ’im,’ he growled.

  ‘Well, my money’s on Sid Bristow,’ Soapy said firmly.

  ‘P’raps it was Will Tanner,’ Sammy’s friend suggested.

  Sharkey shook his head. ‘It wasn’t ’im, Darbo. Will’s as straight as a die. ’E’s always standin’ up fer the blokes, an’ what ’e knows ’e keeps ter ’imself. All right, ’e’s the yard foreman an’ sometimes ’e gets a bit shirty wiv us, but that’s ’is job. We all know that.’

  Ted Derbyshire shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sammy might be right about Jack Oxford. That bloke gives me the creeps. ’E’s always slouchin’ around the yard wiv that funny look in ’is eyes. I ’eard ’e sleeps in the doss-’ouse in Tower Bridge Road. Somebody told me they seen ’im standin’ outside that school in Fair Street watchin’ the gels doin’ their exercises. Yer gotta watch people like that. Them dirty ole gits are dangerous where kids are concerned.’

  Sharkey finished his drink and made to leave. He did not like the way the conversation was going and it seemed to him that the two new carmen had it in for the yard man. He had known Jack Oxford for many years and felt sure the man was just a harmless simpleton.

  Chapter Eight

  Florrie Axford had been making herself busy during the past two weeks and felt happy with the response she had got from her neighbours and friends. It looked as though she had now found enough homes for the whole litter and she felt she had better go and see Jack Oxford instead of waiting for him to call. ‘That silly bastard’s prob’ly fergot ’e’s s’posed ter come round. ’E’ll drown the poor little mites if I don’t go an’ tell ’im I’ve found ’em ’omes,’ she groaned to her friend Maisie Dougall.

  Maisie had said she would take one of the litter and her next-door neighbour had found a home for another with a friend. Aggie Temple had been approached but had declined. It was bad enough as it was keeping the place clean without cats messing everywhere, she told Florrie. Sadie Sullivan had said she was willing to take one, and there were a few more offers of a home for the remainder of the litter.

  When Florrie called at the yard, Jack was busy with the broom. She beckoned him to the gate. ‘I’ve got people ter take them all,’ she said.

  He grinned lopsidedly. ‘Righto. I’ll bring ’em round ternight,’ he replied.

  ‘I ain’t ’avin’ ’em all in my place, an’ I certainly ain’t runnin’ aroun’ deliverin’ ’em,’ Florrie said pointedly. ‘I’ll tell ’em ter come an’ pick ’em up themselves.’

  Jack nodded and got on with his sweeping, happy in the knowledge that now he would not have to drown the kittens. His only fear was that George Galloway would find out about them, despite the precautions he had taken, and stop him giving the litter away.

  The next morning, as soon as the last cart had left the yard, Maisie Dougall called in and Jack Oxford took her into the small stable. She soon selected her kitten and went away, happily cuddling it to her ample bosom. During the day two more callers went away with their chosen kittens. Maggie Jones had intended to go to the yard that morning but her youngest daughter Iris wanted to select the kitten herself and so she decided that the child should call in at the yard on her way home from school.

  It was a quiet afternoon when ten-year-old Iris Jones called in and was shown to the stable by the grinning Jack Oxford. He stood back while the child bent over the litter and made a fuss of each small bundle of fur. At last she made her choice and slipped the kitten under her coat. She walked out into the bright sunshine, smiling happily at Jack Oxford.

  At the same time as the young girl arrived at the gate that afternoon, Darbo was driving his cart down the turning. He saw Iris cross the yard with Jack. As he drove into the yard and jumped down from his seat, Darbo looked around him, frowning. They were nowhere to be seen now. The curious carman walked quickly into the office and saw Horace Gallagher bent over his desk.

  ‘I’ve jus’ seen Oxford bring a young gel in the yard,’ he exclaimed loudly.

  The elderly accountant peered over his glasses. The figures di
d not seem to be making sense that afternoon and he was feeling irritable. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he replied. ‘Go and tell Mr Tanner.’

  Darbo hurried from the yard and looked around. The foreman was most probably up in the large stable, he thought. There was no time to waste. Anything could be happening to that child.

  He hurried to the store shed and peered in. It was all quiet. As he turned to leave he saw the girl and the yard man walking to the gate. The gangling figure stared after her and gave her a wave as she disappeared along the turning. Darbo’s immediate reaction was to confront Jack Oxford, but as he watched the yard man loping up the long ramp he thought better of it. Best wait until Sammy gets in, he decided. People like Oxford could be violent at times. Sammy would be able to handle the situation if it got dangerous.

  When Sammy Jackson drove into the yard fifteen minutes later he was confronted by the excited Darbo, and while their animated conversation was taking place George Galloway drove his trap into the yard with Geoffrey sitting at his side. Immediately the two carmen hurried up to the trap and Sammy leaned on its brass side-rail.