Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street

by Harry Bowling

  One morning in the first week of May, Florrie Axford hurried along Page Street and knocked on Maisie Dougall’s front door.

  ‘’Ere Maisie, I was jus’ goin’ up the shop fer me snuff an’ ole Bill Bailey stopped me,’ she said, puffing from her exertion. ‘Did yer know the King’s dead?’

  Maisie stood staring at Florrie for a few seconds and then her hand came up to her mouth. ‘The King’s dead?’ she repeated.

  Florrie nodded. ‘I didn’t believe Bill Bailey when ’e told me, ter tell yer the trufe. Yer know what a silly ole bleeder ’e is. Anyway, when I got ter the paper shop I see it fer meself. It’s on the placards. ’E died o’ pneumonia yesterday. The shop’s sold out o’ papers already.’

  Maisie shook her head sadly. ‘It jus’ shows yer, Florrie. All the best doctors in the world ain’t no use when yer number’s up. ’E must ’ave ’ad the best ter look after ’im, it stan’s ter reason.’

  Florrie pinched her chin between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I bin finkin’. It might be a good idea ter get the neighbours ter chip in wiv a few coppers.’

  ‘Yer finkin’ we should send ’im a wreaf then?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘No, yer silly mare. I mean fer the kids,’ Florrie replied forcefully, and seeing Maisie’s puzzled look she sighed with exasperation. ‘A party. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. We should ’ave a street party fer the kids.’

  Maisie shook her head. She had been present at Bridie Phelan’s wake and she remembered how shocking it was to see the fiddler playing beside the coffin and the singing mourners gathered there in the room with glasses of whisky in their hands. ‘It wouldn’t be right, Florrie,’ she said reverently. ‘I said so at Bridie Phelan’s send orf an’ I ain’t changed me mind. I fink it’s wicked ter get pissed at such a time.’

  Florrie reached into her coat pocket for her snuff-box. ‘What are yer talkin’ about, Mais?’ she grated, tapping her finger on the silver lid. ‘I reckon it’s a good idea ter celebrate the coronation wiv a party fer the kids. We’ve got plenty o’ time ter save up fer it.’

  Maisie’s face relaxed into a wide grin. ‘I see,’ she laughed. ‘A coronation party. I thought yer was on about a funeral party, like the one they done fer Bridie.’

  Florrie had taken a pinch of snuff and was searching for her handkerchief. ‘Gawd, Maisie, yer do get yer stays in a tangle sometimes,’ she said with a resigned sigh. ‘There’s bound ter be a coronation, an’ we ought ter celebrate. After all, it’ll be somefink ter look forward to.’

  Maudie Mycroft was hurrying along the turning towards them and Florrie reached out quickly and touched her friend’s arm. ‘I can’t stand ’ere goin’ on about the King, Maisie. I’ll see yer later.’

  As Florrie hurried off, Maisie turned to greet Maudie. ‘I jus’ ’eard the news. I fink we ought ter ’ave a party fer the kids, don’t you, gel?’

  Maudie was about to tell Maisie that Grandfather O’Shea had finally expired and that her husband was off work with shingles, and she wondered how on earth that gave them cause to have a party.

  During the summer months of 1910 there was trouble at the Galloway yard. A lucrative contract with a leather firm had been terminated and complaints had been coming in from the rum merchant’s about the general conduct of the hired carmen. Trouble came to a head when the managing director of the rum merchant’s phoned personally to complain that two of Galloway’s carmen had refused to cross a picket line at the docks and that as a consequence bottling was at a standstill.

  George Galloway had had enough. When he drove his trap into the yard on Monday morning, his face was dark with anger. ‘What’s bin goin’ on?’ he stormed.

  William shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s a stoppage at the Rum Quay,’ he replied. ‘It started on Friday mornin’ and it’s not bin resolved. I’ve sent Symonds and Morris out but it’s likely they’ll be turned back.’

  George brought his fist down on the desk. ‘I’ve ’ad the top man on ter me about those two bloody troublemakers. ’E told me they’ve got casual labour workin’ on the quay an’ there’s two loads o’ rum casks waitin’ fer collection. Why didn’t Morris an’ Symonds go through the pickets? The police would ’ave seen to it there’d be no trouble loading.’

  William shook his head. ‘It’s not as easy as that, George,’ he answered. ‘If our carmen ’ad passed those pickets, we’d be in trouble later on. Most o’ the ovver cartage firms around ’ere ’ave gone union. None o’ them ’ave crossed the picket lines.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what the ovver firms do,’ growled George.

  William pulled up a chair and sat down facing his employer. ‘I know yer’ve always bin against the unions, George, but yer gotta face the facts. We’d be blacklisted if we pulled a load off the quay while there was a stoppage. It’d mean the loss o’ the contract. Surely yer can understand that?’

  Galloway’s face was set in a hard scowl. ‘Those dockers ’ave tried that little trick before an’ it didn’t work. Don’t ferget they get a call-on every mornin’ an’ the troublemakers are left on the cobbles. I don’t fink we’ve got much ter worry about on that score. What I am worried about is the complaints I’ve been gettin’ about those two dopey gits o’ mine. Apparently Soapy’s bin gettin’ at the rum an’ givin’ the manager a load o’ cheek, an’ there’ve bin complaints about Sharkey. From what I’ve bin told ’e’s bin makin’ a nuisance of ’imself wiv one o’ the women an’ ’er ole man’s bin up the firm sayin’ ’e’s gonna smash Sharkey’s face in. On top o’ that, both of them are none too careful wiv the loads. There was two casks damaged last week when they was unloaded, an’ they’ve bin late gettin’ back. If I’m not careful I’m gonna lose that contract an’ I can’t afford it, not on top o’ that leavver contract I’ve jus’ lost. If fings go on the way they are, I’m gonna be out o’ business, Will.’

  ‘All right,’ Will said quietly, ‘I’ll ’ave a word wiv ’em when they get back.’

  Galloway shook his head. ‘No, I’ve ’ad enough from those two,’ he said firmly. ‘As a matter o’ fact, I’ve sent young Geoffrey along ter the rum firm ter see if ’e can square fings up at that end. If Morris an’ Symonds turn round outside the dock gates this mornin’, I’m gonna sack the pair of ’em, an’ that’s final.’

  ‘Yer bein’ a bit drastic, ain’t yer?’ Will ventured. ‘They’ve both bin wiv yer fer years. Why don’t yer let me talk to ’em first?’

  Galloway rounded on his foreman. ‘What good would that do?’ he asked loudly. ‘The trouble wiv you, Will, is yer too easy wiv ’em. It was the same when I wanted ter sack Oxford. I’ve got a business ter run. I can’t afford ter let sentiment cloud me finkin’.’

  William shrank back slightly in his chair, and sighed. ‘That’s always bin the difference between us, George,’ he said quietly. ‘I could never run a business, but I know ’ow ter ’andle the men. I’ve kept the peace ’ere fer more years than I care ter remember, an’ it’s not always bin easy. There’s a lot o’ discontent over yer refusin’ ter let the union in an’ if yer sack those two carmen it’s all gonna blow up in yer face, mark my words.’

  Galloway glared at his foreman. ‘I don’t see I’ve got any choice. It’s them or the contract. Tell me, what would you do in my position?’

  ‘I’d swop the jobs around,’ William replied quickly. ‘I’d put Lofty Russell an’ Ted Derbyshire on the rum contract. Sid Bristow could switch ter the ’ops in place o’ Russell, an’ let Morris an’ Symonds do the fellmongers’ contracts in place o’ Derbyshire an’ Bristow. That leaves the two new carmen fer the bits an’ pieces as usual.’

  George shook his head vigorously. ‘It’s too much disruption. I want it left as I’ve said. If those two drunken gits get sent back, I want ’em sacked. That’s it, finished with.’

  William stood up and walked to the door, then he turned to face Galloway, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. ‘You’re the guv’nor, George. If that’s what yer want, so be it. I’d j
us’ like yer ter remember that Sharkey an’ Soapy are ole servants. If yer not careful, yer gonna ’ave a yard full o’ casuals. What price yer contracts then?’

  The firm’s owner smiled briefly. ‘When I started up in business I ’ad nuffink but casuals workin’ fer me, except Albert Flynn, an’ ’e got ’imself killed,’ he said quietly. ‘I worked long hours ter build up the business an’ I ’ad ter make sacrifices. I didn’t see much o’ me kids when they were little an’ that’s somefink I’ve lived ter regret. I couldn’t spend much time wiv Martha, Gawd rest ’er soul, an’ I regret that too, but that’s the price yer pay fer bein’ in business. What I’m not prepared ter do is see the firm go down the drain over carmen who can’t or won’t do their jobs prop’ly, even if I end up wiv a yard full o’ casuals again.’

  William left the office without replying, and as he crossed the yard saw Geoffrey coming through the gates. The young man’s expression was serious. He beckoned to the foreman. ‘I’ve just come from the rum merchant’s, Will,’ he said. ‘There’s a full dock strike brewing and they’re anxious to get their consignment today. Symonds and Morris are on their way to the docks. I just hope they get loaded. If they don’t, we’re in trouble.’

  William smiled mirthlessly. ‘That’s jus’ what yer farvver told me,’ he replied. ‘I ’ope they get loaded, fer their sakes. I’ve bin told ter sack the pair of ’em if they come back empty-’anded.’

  Geoffrey winced. ‘Did you argue with the old man?’

  William raised his eyebrows. ‘I tried ter talk ’im out of it but ’e’s the guv’nor. ’E wouldn’t be shifted. All I know is we’ll be in trouble wiv the union if those two are put off, Geoff. It’ll mean us bein’ blacklisted at the docks. If our carmen get sent away, there’s always ovver firms ter pick up the contracts.’

  Geoffrey fidgeted with his tie. ‘Would you let the men join the union if it was left to you?’

  William nodded. ‘Most o’ the cartage firms around Bermondsey are unionised now. In time any non-union firm is gonna find it difficult ter get contracts. I’ve tried ter tell yer farvver that we’ll be left wiv next ter nuffink unless ’e changes ’is mind, but ’e’s determined ter go on as usual. ’E’ll never change, unless it’s forced on ’im.’

  Geoffrey sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know what to suggest. The old man won’t listen to me. I’ve wanted to bring a couple of lorries in as you know but he won’t even consider the idea. I’ve been after him to get another yard too but he won’t budge. I thought Frank would be able to persuade him otherwise but he couldn’t make him see the sense in it.’

  William had his own reservations about the firm becoming mechanised but he refrained from making any comment, merely shrugging his shoulders instead. It seemed to him that it would only be a matter of time before all horses were replaced by lorries, and he thought with foreboding about his own future. Working with horses had been his life ever since he had started work at fourteen. He had been with Galloway for over twenty-eight years now and it would count for nothing if all the horses went.

  ‘It shouldn’t make any difference to you if we do get motor vans in, Will,’ Geoffrey said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘There’ll always be a place here for you. It’ll just mean adapting to a new way of working.’

  William realised that his anxiety must be obvious and hid his fears behind a smile. ‘I’d better get back ter work.’

  It was almost noon when Sharkey and Soapy drove their carts into the yard. ‘We’ve bin sent back,’ Soapy told the yard foreman. ‘We got turned away at the dock gates an’ the firm told us ter report back ’ere.’

  William scratched his head in agitation. ‘Couldn’t yer go in the gates?’ he asked.

  Sharkey looked pained. ‘I ain’t crossin’ no picket lines,’ he asserted. ‘It’s all right fer that guv’nor at the rum firm ter talk. It’s us what’s gonna get set about.’

  Soapy nodded his agreement. ‘There was only a couple o’ coppers outside the gates an’ there was fousands o’ dockers. We’d ’ave got slaughtered if we’d tried ter go in.’

  William pulled the two carmen to one side. ‘I was told ter sack the pair of yer if yer got sent back,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘Sack us!’ Sharkey gasped, his ruddy face growing even more flushed. ‘After all these years? I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I can,’ Soapy jumped in, fixing William with his bleary eyes. ‘Look at ’ow the ole bastard sacked the Blackwell bruvvers over that union business. Well, I ain’t takin’ it lyin’ down. I’m gonna go along ter Tooley Street an’ see the union blokes. I’ll get it stopped, you see if I don’t.’

  ‘What can they do?’ Sharkey grumbled. ‘It ain’t as though we was in the union ourselves.’

  ‘They can make it awkward, that’s what they can do,’ Soapy answered. ‘That’s why the likes of ’Atcher an’ Morgan let the union in. They ’ad the sense ter see what could ’appen. Trouble wiv Galloway is, ’e can’t see no furvver than ’is poxy nose. Well, I ’ope the union does somefink about it. I’m gonna see ’em anyway.’

  William held his hands up. ‘Look, I’ll ’ave anuvver word wiv the ole man,’ he said quickly. ‘Not that it’ll do much good, but at least I’ll try. You two wait ’ere.’

  George had been talking on the phone. When William walked into the office, he slammed the receiver down on to its hook. ‘That was the rum firm on the line,’ he growled. ‘They wasn’t too ’appy, as yer might expect. Did yer tell those two lazy gits they’re sacked?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted ter see yer about, George,’ the foreman said, closing the door behind him. ‘The union are not gonna let this trouble go away wivout tryin’ ter do somefing about it.’

  ‘Oh, an’ what can they do?’ George asked.

  ‘If yer’d jus’ listen fer a second yer’d realise there’s a lot they can do,’ William replied, feeling his anger rising. ‘Fer a start yer won’t get any more dock work. They’ll see ter that. Yer won’t get contracts from unionised firms neivver, an’ yer gonna be left wiv all the work no ovver firm would entertain. All right, yer’d keep the fellmongers’ contracts but who’d be ’appy doin’ that sort o’ work, apart from yer two new carmen? Let’s face it, George, who’d cart those stinkin’ skins fer you when they could get more money doin’ the same job fer Morgan? If yer ask me I reckon yer bein’ unreasonable askin’ Sharkey and Soapy ter cross picket lines.’

  ‘Oh, yer do, do yer?’ George exclaimed sarcastically, his heavy-lidded eyes brightening with anger as he glared at William. ‘What should I do? Pat ’em on the back an’ tell ’em it was all right? It’s a pity yer can’t see my side o’ fings fer a change. I’d expect yer ter show me a bit o’ loyalty after all the years we’ve known each ovver. Yer paid ter run the yard, not ter be a nursemaid ter those lazy bastards o’ mine.’

  William felt his fists clenching and he drew in a deep breath in an effort to control his anger. ‘I fink that’s jus’ what Sharkey an’ Soapy might ’ave expected from you,’ he replied quickly. ‘They’d ’ave liked you ter show ’em a bit o’ loyalty. As fer me, I run this yard the way I see fit. Yer ’orses are in good condition an’ the carts are kept on the road. What’s more, I keep the peace as best I can. If yer don’t like the way I work, I suggest yer get yerself anuvver yard foreman.’

  For a few moments the two glared at each other, then George slumped back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes yer puzzle me, Will,’ he said with a slight dismissive shake of his head. ‘Yer willin’ ter put yer job at risk fer a couple o’ pissy carmen. It was the same when I was gonna sack Jack Oxford. Sometimes I wonder jus’ where yer loyalties lie. All right, s’posin’ I reconsider an’ let yer change the work round - what would yer fink?’

  ‘What d’yer mean?’ William queried.

  George leaned forward in his chair. ‘Well, would yer fink yer could barter yer job against any future decisions I might make which you don’t like? I tell yer now, if that’s the case yer’d better fin
k again. I won’t be ’eld ter ransom by you or anybody else. I make the decisions ’ere, jus’ remember that. This time, though, I’ll let yer ’ave yer way - but jus’ fink on what I’ve said. Now yer’d better go out an’ give them dopey pair the good news before I change me mind.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nellie Tanner was sitting having a chat with her friends from the street. ‘It’s bin a funny ole twelvemonth when yer come ter fink of it,’ she remarked. It seemed to her that the year had been fraught with trouble of one sort or another, and she was eager to see the back of it. ‘There was that trouble at Carrie’s firm an’ I felt sure she’d lost ’er job. It was touch an’ go fer a while but fank Gawd it all worked out right in the end.’

  Florrie Axford eased her lean frame back in the armchair and reached into her apron for her snuff. ‘Yeah, it’s not bin a very nice year one way an’ anuvver. There was King Edward dyin’ in May, an’ all that short-time in the factories, then there was that comet flyin’ over. That was May, wasn’t it?’