Amy had heard enough. She suggested to him that he might lodge in her house. That evening the yard man went to inspect his prospective room in Abbey Street and gave her one week’s rent there and then. As the days passed Amy Cuthbertson became more and more kindly disposed towards her lodger, and one evening she plied him with stout and took the startled inebriate to her bed.
The new arrangement suited Jack Oxford admirably, and Amy too.
As he walked home through the fog along Abbey Street, Jack whistled to himself. The house was warm as he let himself in and he could smell mutton stew cooking.
‘I’m in the scullery, deary. Tea’s nearly ready,’ Amy called out.
Jack ambled into the front room and flopped down in an armchair with a blissful sigh. He just could not believe how lucky he was.
Across the street Arthur Cuthbertson shifted his position in the shop doorway and scowled as he stared over at the house. Some of the people in the neighbourhood were still friendly with Arthur, and from what one of them had told him he had good reason to worry. Amy had found herself a bloke and they appeared to be very happy, he had been informed. Since his new lady friend had walked out on him, Arthur had realised he made a mistake in leaving Amy. He had been intending to go back to her cap in hand, hoping for a reconciliation, but this seemed unlikely now that she had found herself a new man. Well, there was only one thing to do, he decided. Amy’s lodger would have to be frightened off if there was to be any chance of getting back with her. He would give them time to have their tea and then he would make an appearance, he told himself, fingering the piece of lead piping which was tucked into his wide leather belt.
After he had finished his meal Jack settled himself beside the fire and rested his feet on the brass fender. He sighed contentedly as he leaned back and closed his eyes, not taking any notice as Amy got up to answer the loud knock.
Her scream brought him upright in his chair, and as the bulky figure of Arthur pushed his way into the room brandishing a length of lead piping in his large fist Jack knew instantly that he was in serious trouble.
‘So you’re the whoreson who’s took ’er from me, are yer?’ Arthur growled at him, moving around the table to get at him.
‘I ain’t done nuffink,’ Jack cried, trying to keep the table between him and his assailant.
‘If I get ’old o’ yer I’ll maim yer, yer dirty ole goat!’ Arthur yelled.
Amy was trying to hold her estranged husband back, with little success. ‘Leave ’im alone, yer cowson!’ she screamed. ‘Yer pissed orf an’ left me fer yer fancy bit an’ now yer want me back. Well, I ain’t takin’ yer back, yer scruffy git. Go on, get out!’
Amy’s outburst only made Arthur more incensed and he brought the lead pipe down on the table with a loud crash. ‘Keep still, yer dopey bastard!’ he roared at Jack. ‘Let me get at yer! I’ll do fer yer, I swear I will!’
With Amy holding on to Arthur’s arm, the terrified yard man saw his chance to escape. He made a sudden dash for the front door and stumbled out into the foggy street. By the time Arthur had freed his arm Jack was halfway along Abbey Street, looking over his shoulder fearfully as he hurried along, his stockinged feet pattering over the wet cobbles.
Jack Oxford’s cosy evenings had been terminated by the sudden appearance of Amy’s wayward husband, and as he leaned against a gaslamp to catch his breath he pondered over what he should do next. It was no night to be sleeping rough, he thought with a shudder, and it was unlikely he would be able to get a bed at a doss-house now. There was only one thing to do, he decided. It would have to be the Druid Street arches.
Jack hobbled on along Abbey Street and turned into Druid Street. The fog was getting thicker now and he cursed his luck as he slipped into a narrow alley and then shuffled over rotting garbage and rubbish. He could see the glow of a fire ahead and then the huddled figures sitting around it. ‘Any chance of a warm?’ he asked timorously as he reached the group.
‘Why if it ain’t ole Jack Oxford,’ one of the men said, grinning widely as he saw Jack’s stockinged feet. ‘Sit yerself down, mate. Wanna drop o’ soup? It’s bacon bones an’ ’tater peelin’s an there’s a couple o’ crusts left.’
Jack sat down on the plank of wood which served as a bench and rubbed his sore and frozen feet as he looked around at the four men. They were all familiar to him beneath their beards and unwashed faces. The man who had welcomed him handed over a tin of watery liquid and a stale crust of bread which Jack accepted gratefully. He had eaten his fill earlier but the cold had penetrated up from his feet. As he sipped the hot, greasy soup and chewed on the bread, he felt a little less sorry for himself.
‘What ’appened ter yer boots, mate?’ the man asked.
Jack felt a little embarrassed about telling them the full story and shrugged his shoulders. ‘They wore out,’ he said simply.
The man facing him chuckled through his huge black beard. ‘We’re all wearing out, friend,’ he said, poking a stick into the fire and putting it to his stained clay pipe. ‘Trouble is, it’s always the wrong way round. We wear out from the ground upwards. I’ve always said we should start the other way round.’
Jack’s host nudged him with his elbow. ‘Bernie’s a clever old cock. ’E used ter teach the kids at Webb Street ragged school, didn’t yer, Bern?’
The bearded man stared into the fire not hearing, his pipe locked between thumb and forefinger. ‘’Twould be a mite more merciful that way,’ he said quietly. ‘When the mind goes, the rest doesn’t matter. Just think, we could sit here in front of the fire in sublime ignorance. We would neither understand nor care about the circumstances of our plight. We’d all be happy souls, indeed we would.’
‘Bernie lost ’is position at the school, didn’t yer, Bern?’ Jack’s friend remarked.
‘The great poets understood,’ Bernie went on, ignoring the interruptions. ‘Milton, Shakespeare and the like. They were all aware.’
Jack yawned. He did not understand what Bernie was saying but he was aware of one thing: he was not going to chance going back to Amy’s house to collect his boots, not now that her maniac of a husband had returned. The bacon-bone and potato soup had warmed his insides and the heat of the fire felt pleasant on his aching feet. Maybe he should never have forsaken the doss-houses for Amy’s place, he reflected. At least he could have protected his boots with the bedposts. Jack closed his eyes and soon sleep blotted out the circumstances of his plight.
At the Tanners’ house William was lounging in his chair and Nellie was sitting facing him, busily darning a sock. ‘Yer not goin’ in the yard ternight, are yer, luv?’ she asked.
William shook his head. ‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Everyfing’s all right.’
Nellie got on with her darning and William closed his eyes. It was a habit he had adopted when he wanted to think. Nellie was always quick to notice when he was worried and by feigning sleep he could mull over his problems without being disturbed.
It was something Geoffrey had said that morning which was worrying him. ‘I think the old man should seriously consider buying a couple of motor vans, Will,’ he had remarked. ‘Most of the carters are getting them. If we fall behind we’re going to be left to pick up the work no one else wants, and at a lower price.’
William pondered his own position. He had worked with horses since he was a boy and had spent more than twenty-seven years with Galloway’s. He knew nothing of motor transport, and if the horses went so would his job. George might let him stay on, but for what? Would he end up taking over Jack Oxford’s job? Then there was the home the family lived in. What would happen if he was put out of work? Galloway would no doubt employ someone to look after the motor vans and might well offer that person their house as an inducement.
William’s forehead wrinkled as he thought about his future and he shifted uneasily in the chair. Nellie had been looking at him for a while. She lowered her eyes again to her darning. She knew that when her husband slept, he snored. He was awake and
there was something troubling him, she knew. Will was always loath to talk about his worries and had been that way ever since she had known him. How long was it now? she thought suddenly. Almost nineteen years since they had walked down the aisle at Bermondsey Church. Then Will had been a handsome young man with a proud swagger. He was a good man who had provided for her and the children and she had tried to make him happy during their years together.
She winced as she pricked herself with the darning needle, and as she sucked on her finger wished there was a way to soothe her troubled thoughts. Unlike her husband, she was always ready to discuss and share her troubles. There was only one occasion when she had been unable to confide in him, and it had caused her so much pain and anguish ever since. But William would neither have understood nor forgiven her. She would never be able to unburden herself to him and the secret would have to remain locked inside her until the day she died.
The fog cleared by dawn and the morning sky was clear. By seven thirty all the horse carts had left but there was still no sign of Jack Oxford. At eight o’clock Florrie Axford was just about to whiten her front doorstep when she saw the yard man hobbling down Page Street with sacking wrapped around his feet. ‘Gawd ’elp us, Jack!’ she exclaimed. ‘What yer done ter yer boots?’
He scowled at her. ‘I lost ’em,’ he replied quickly.
‘Lost ’em? Did somebody nick ’em in the kip ’ouse?’ she enquired.
The sorry-looking man nodded and hobbled on, leaving Florrie wondering who would be hard-up enough to bother taking Oxford’s size thirteens.
Jack managed to slip into the yard without being spotted by anyone apart from Horace Gallagher, who was looking out of the office window as he hobbled in. The ageing accountant turned to William Tanner who was sitting at a desk going through the worksheets. ‘Jack Oxford’s just come in,’ he said, a puzzled look on this thin face. ‘He’s got his feet wrapped up in sacking. I’m sure the man’s going barmy.’
William sighed as he got up to investigate. As he left the office, he was hailed by a large woman who was standing at the gate.
‘Excuse me, mister, but could you give this to Mr Oxford please?’ she asked, handing him a crumpled bag. ‘I tried ter catch ’im up but ’e was too far in front.’
William eventually located Jack in the store shed and watched, bemused, while the yard man took out a pair of boots from the paper bag and found a piece of paper rolled up in one of them. Jack’s face screwed up as he glanced at the note. ‘’Ere, Will, can yer tell me what this ses?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never bin one fer readin’ an’ writin’.’
William read the message, struggling to keep a straight face:
Dear Jack,
Sorry things had to work out this way. Also I’m sorry if my Arthur scared you. He’s not a violent man really, and I don’t think he would have hit you with that piping. I’m taking him back and we are going to try to make a go of it. He said he still loves me. Look after yourself. You’re a very nice man.
Love, Amy
William handed the note back. ‘So yer lost yer digs then, Jack?’
‘Yeah, but it don’t matter, Will,’ the yard man replied. ‘I’ve got me ole bed back at the doss-’ouse. I went ter see the bloke this mornin’, that’s why I was late. He said I could ’ave me bed back on one condition.’
‘Oh, an’ what’s that?’
‘On condition I always scrape the ’orse shit orf me boots afore I go in,’ Jack said, grinning widely.
Chapter Thirteen
Carrie Tanner was feeling nervous as she waited on the street corner for Billy Sullivan. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in July and the first time she had walked out with a boy. It was true she had got to know Billy and had chatted to him on many occasions but this was her first time out alone in his company, she realised. It had come as a pleasant surprise when she stopped to talk to him on her way home from the factory two nights ago and he had asked if she would like to walk out with him. Carrie felt a very grown-up eighteen as she pushed her wide summer bonnet down on to her head and fidgeted with the satin bow on the front of her tight-fitting dress. Her long fair hair was hanging loose down her back and her high-buttoned boots of patent leather shone in the bright sunlight. She felt a little breathless as she saw Billy leave his house and walk quickly towards her. The bodice of her dress felt tight and she remembered how she had needed her mother to help her button it up.
Carrie smiled as she recalled the remarks her mother had made about her choice of dress. ‘It’s too tight and it shows yer bust off too much,’ she said. ‘It’s cut a bit too low as well. Respectable girls don’t show their wares. I think I ought ter put a few tacks in the front.’
Carrie had managed to persuade her that the dress was not too revealing and that she could not bear to be wrapped for winter on a fine summer’s day. Her mother had relented but had been careful to point out the dangers facing a young girl when she was in the company of a young man such as Billy Sullivan.
‘’E’s a good-lookin’ boy, an’ ’e’s full of ’imself. Yer gotta be careful, Carrie,’ she fussed. ‘Boys don’t ’ave ter face nuffing when they get a gel pregnant. It’s us what ’ave ter bear the shame an’ disgrace. They jus’ brag about it. jus’ be careful, an’ don’t let ’im take no liberties, understand, gel?’
Carrie laughed at her mother’s fears. ‘We’re only goin’ ter the park, Mum. Billy said there’s an ’orse show there this afternoon an’ ’e knows I like ter see the ’orses.’
Nellie had sighed as she watched her daughter leave the house and trip gaily along the cobbled turning. She had grown up so quickly, she thought. Maybe it was for the best that she was now beginning to take an interest in boys. The suffragette movement had been taking up most of her time and she was much too young to get involved in that sort of thing. Carrie had often spoken of those well-dressed women who devoted all their energies to the cause and they sounded a strange lot. There had been much made about it in the papers and at the music halls. Nellie remembered when Will had taken her to the South London Music Hall at the Elephant and Castle a couple of weeks ago and they watched a sketch about the suffragettes. They had been depicted as cigar-smoking women who dressed in monocles and wore their hair short and parted like men. They had eyed younger, pretty girls and made naughty suggestions to them as they put their arms about them. Nellie recalled how disgusted she was and how concerned she had been for her daughter. William had laughed it off when she confided her fears to him about her daughter’s involvement with women like that, but she knew he shared her concern.
As Billy walked up to her with a wide smile on his face, Carrie forgot her mother’s anxieties. She was feeling good, and the young man looked very smart in his dark grey single-breasted suit, starched collar and wide-knotted tie, she thought. Billy was not wearing a hat and his dark, curly hair was pushed back from his forehead. His deep blue eyes seemed to sparkle as he appraised her.
‘Yer look very pretty,’ he said as he fell into step beside her.
‘Yer look smart yerself,’ she replied, feeling her cheeks flush at her audacity.
They crossed Jamaica Road and walked the short distance to Southwark Park with Billy moving dutifully to the outside of the pavement. When they reached the park they saw the gaily decorated horses and carts going through the gates and Carrie gripped Billy’s arm excitedly as she saw the two heavy dray-horses from the Courage brewery enter, pulling a shining, red-painted cart. Inside the park the contestants were manoeuvring into position on the wide gravel path and folk were milling around, the women wearing wide, flowered bonnets and many carrying parasols. The men were all dressed in suits and some wore bowler hats. Children laughed loudly as they rolled around in the grass, and a military brass band played lively music.
‘They’re shire-’orses,’ Carrie said, pointing to the brewery drays. ‘Those are cobs pullin’ that ’ay cart an’ that’s a Clydesdale. We’ve got two o’ them at the yard.’
Billy laughed at her exc
itement and took her by the arm as they walked along the edge of the path. Carrie felt his touch and shivered slightly. It was the first time they had made any real contact with each other and she could feel the heat of his hand. Billy led her past the parade and over towards the bandstand where the musicians sweated under their stiff uniforms as they blasted out a military march. Carrie stood amongst the gathering crowd and was aware of Billy standing very close behind her. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck and the pressure of his hand on her arm. She found herself becoming strangely elated and turned her head to face him. His blue eyes were looking deeply into hers and she averted her gaze, trying to look as though she was fascinated by the music. Billy merely smiled and led her away from the bandstand, his eyes fixed on her hot face as they walked slowly towards the flower gardens.
Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street Page 18