The group of publicans who called themselves the Bermondsey Beer Boys saw the Crown as an ideal site for their first meeting. The merchant seamen had money in their pockets and could be relied upon to lay fair-size bets on the fights, with due encouragement and prompting from the prostitutes who had a special arrangement with Fat Donald McBain the landlord. The Crown also had a large back yard with a bolt-hole, a back gate opening on to a riverside alley that led to a warren of backstreets.
The Bermondsey Beer Boys were careful to keep the tournament a secret from the general public. Only their most well-known and trusted customers were invited, along with street bookmakers who paid for the privilege. Each of the publicans had his own fighter and put up the stake money on him as well as making side bets. Certain trusted outsiders were allowed to bring along their own fighters and supporters providing they staked the fighter and were responsible for the behaviour of the camp followers. The Bermondsey Beer Boys insisted that the rules must be enforced, for if the police or the breweries got to hear of what was taking place in the pubs, the landlords concerned would most definitely lose their licences.
The contests were scheduled to go for twenty rounds with a knock-down counting as the end of the round, as in the bare-knuckle fairground fights. The contestants would wear standard-size gloves that were little better than ordinary leather gloves. The padding was minimal, and the facial scars and cauliflower ears on some of the older fighters testified to the damage they caused.
The marquee that had been hastily erected in the back yard of the Crown and lit with Tilley lamps was filling with excited spectators. There was a ring in the middle of the covered area and the floor of the roped arena was strewn with sawdust. People were crowding on to the benches that were placed around the ring, and at the back of the marquee the street bookmakers stood chewing on cigars and passing out betting-slips.
There was a sudden hush as the fighters emerged from the changing-room behind the saloon bar and marched into the marquee. Each had a blanket draped round his shoulders. As Jake Mitchell ducked under the ropes for his contest there was complete silence, but when his opponent got into the ring loud clapping broke out.
George Galloway stood beside Jake, leaning on the ropes and eyeing the other fighter closely. ‘Now remember what I said, Jake. ’E comes in like a bull so watch ’is barnet. ’E’s young an’ full of ’imself so be careful, an’ don’t let the crowd see yer use yer thumbs. It looks like some of ’em ’ave taken a shine ter the boy.’
‘I gathered that much,’ Jake growled, banging his clenched fists together and glaring over at his young opponent.
Don McBain ducked under the ropes to perform the ceremonies and Galloway looked around the ring, nodding to acquaintances and nervously chewing on his fat cigar. Mitchell was introduced as ‘Battling Jake Mitchell from the East End’ amidst a few boos and cat-calls. The young Scottish fighter whom McBain had brought down from the Glasgow Gorbals was presented simply as ‘Jock McIver’ and the announcement brought forth loud cheers and clapping. Galloway had learned about the Scot from McBain, who had bragged about his man and described his technique when the two of them were drinking together. Galloway felt that the young fighter was ideal fodder for the rougher and more experienced Jake, and had made a few sizeable bets on his man at fair odds.
The marquee was becoming filled with smoke and the noise died down as the crowd waited for battle to begin. An impatient timekeeper sitting at a small table beside the ring rang a handbell to start the fight and the two contestants moved confidently out of their corners.
As Galloway had predicted the young fighter rushed Mitchell, his fists flailing. The older fighter took most of the blows on his arms but one sharp jab caught him on the nose and as he jerked back blood started to trickle down on to his chin. Mitchell was undaunted. He moved into the centre of the ring and stood his ground as the younger man charged in again with his head held low. He could hear the crowd willing the Scot on, and as they clinched moved his left arm under his opponent’s head. Mitchell had fought in boxing booths around the country and knew that the boy was little more than a novice, strong and brave perhaps but unprepared for his devious tactics. He brought his hand up sharply and with his thumb prodded the young Scot in the eye, his foul play shielded from the crowd by the man’s lowered head.
They parted and moved around in the middle of the ring and Mitchell could see his opponent blinking his right eye as he tried to clear his sight. The tactic had worked and Mitchell felt confident, since his left hook was his best punch and it would be coming from the Scot’s blind side. As the young man rushed him again, Jake looped his left fist round. His opponent did not see it until it landed hard on his temple. He staggered slightly and shook his head, holding his hand close to his face as he prepared to come forward again. His raw courage was his undoing. Instead of keeping out of reach until his head had cleared, the Scot charged in again and Mitchell caught him with another looping left hand that sank him to his knees. The crowd were disappointed as the young man was half dragged back to his corner, and Jake Mitchell grinned cheekily to the booing punters.
As the contest went on the young man’s spirit and endurance began to wear down against Mitchell’s experience and his face was becoming bloody. His eyes were swollen, blood was dripping from his nose and his lips were split. He managed to stay on his feet for the duration of each round until the fifth, when he was caught by a swingeing blow and dropped like a stone. Mitchell felt sure that the young man was finished, but to his astonishment he climbed painfully to his feet and staggered to his corner.
When the Scot came back out he seemed to have gained a second wind, bobbing and weaving his way out of trouble until the bell ended the round. Galloway was becoming worried. He had wagered heavily on his fighter and he could see that Mitchell was tiring. He had never had to go the whole twenty rounds, and it seemed that unless he could despatch his man in the next round or two, youth and stamina would beat him.
The betting was changing now. The odds were lengthening, and with the outcome of the fight still unsure Galloway laid down another bet. It was all or nothing now. He realised that he stood to lose a lot of money unless his fighter pulled something out of the hat. The appointed second was working hard on Mitchell, dousing him with water and whispering words of advice in his ear, and when the timekeeper reached for his bell to start the next round Galloway bit through his unlighted cigar.
The men traded punches in the middle of the ring and Mitchell was gasping for breath. The young Scot tried to keep his opponent on his left side, and the crowd were cheering every blow that he landed. Suddenly they were in a clinch. Mitchell used his thumb again, bringing it up sharply and stabbing his opponent in the left eye. As they broke apart Mitchell knew that he had his man now. The youngster was blinking and moving his head from left to right, trying to focus his eyes. Mitchell gathered his flagging strength and moved in, swinging a flurry of left and right hooks in a desperate frenzy. A hard left swipe caught the Scot on the point of his chin and he went down and rolled over on to his face. Jake had felt the jar right up to his shoulder, and knew instinctively that the young man’s fight was over. He was dragged to his corner still unconscious, and when the bell rang to start the twelfth round a towel was thrown into the centre of the ring. There was barely any applause as Mitchell ducked under the ropes and with a blanket draped around his heaving shoulders walked wearily out of the marquee, without glancing back at his defeated opponent.
Throughout the summer of 1913 the suffragette movement continued to attract attention with large marches and gatherings, and more of the women’s leaders were arrested and imprisoned. The newspapers carried stories of hunger strikes by the women prisoners, and the accounts of their force-feeding inflamed the passions of their supporters even more. One of their leaders who had suffered the torture, Emily Davison, threw herself in front of the King’s horse during the Derby and died a few days later in hospital. When her funeral took place the West End stre
ets were lined with women followers, many of them factory girls from the backstreets of London.
Carrie wanted to join the mourners along the route but decided against it. She was ashamed at letting her allegiance falter and felt it would be hypocritical to attend. Her two ex-workmates from the leather factory went along, Jessica defying her future husband’s wishes and Freda holding her young baby in her arms. Mary Caldwell was given the honour of acting as representative for working-class women, and along with the other representatives, she walked beside the cortège, dressed in white and wearing a wide black sash.
Carrie had been growing steadily more depressed as the summer months wore on. Her dreams and hopes for the future seemed to be slowly dying as Tommy was compelled to spend more and more time caring for his ageing mother. There had been occasions when she and Tommy had gone back to his house and she had wanted him to make love to her but he had resisted her importunings. Carrie could see that he was not relaxed and was always waiting for his mother’s inevitable call, and felt a mixture of pity and anger towards him. It was wrong for a young man to be burdened so, she thought, but wished he could be more firm and less willing to hurry at his mother’s every whim. She was using him, denying him a life of his own, and Carrie found herself arguing constantly with Tommy about what it was doing to their relationship. He invariably became sullen with her and had told her on more than one occasion that his mother would always have to come first. It could go on like this for years, she thought, and things would not improve as long as he allowed himself to be manipulated by the old lady. She was taking advantage of her son’s gentle, caring nature and it angered Carrie and made her sad to see the change in him. It had been his happy-go-lucky nature and his considerate attitude towards her which had first endeared him to her. He was so different from Billy Sullivan, who had proved to be self-centred and interested in only one thing, apart from boxing. Tommy had made her feel good and made her laugh a lot, but now he had grown morose and hard to talk to.
It was very hard for the young man, she had to admit. He was being pulled in two different directions. Carrie had agonised about breaking off their relationship, wondering whether it would perhaps be better for everyone concerned if they parted. Even on the rare occasions when they went to bed, Tommy had been nervous and unable to satisfy her. It was as though he was terrified of making her pregnant, and when she became excited and aroused he did not respond in the way she wanted him to and she ended up feeling terribly alone.
Carrie was in low spirits as she walked to work on Monday morning, unable to quell the troubled thoughts tumbling around in her mind. As she neared the dining rooms she could see the horse carts parked outside, the animals munching from their nosebags while the carmen chatted together. A group of dockers were standing outside the shop and one grinned at her as she approached.
‘C’mon, Carrie, poor ole Fred’s run orf ’is feet in there,’ he joked.
Normally she would have been quick with an answer but on this particular morning Carrie ignored the comment and hurried inside. Fred Bradley bade her good morning as she slipped off her coat and put on her clean apron, and his eyes fixed on her enquiringly as she mumbled a reply. Instantly regretting her sullenness she gave him a wan smile and got on with her chores. There was little time to dwell on things as she served endless cups of tea and waited on tables, and for most of the morning Fred was hard put to it in the kitchen to keep up with the orders for bacon sandwiches and toasted teacakes. The regular carmen and dockers joked with Carrie as they came and went, and when Sharkey Morris came in he managed to bring a smile to her face with his account of Soapy Symonds’ latest exploit.
‘Yer’d never credit it, Carrie,’ he began. ‘Soapy took this load of ’ops ter the brewery last Friday an’ yer know what ’e’s like where there’s a chance of a drink. Anyway, Soapy gets ’is ticket fer a free pint an’ when ’e goes ter the tap room ’e finds out that the bloke what’s servin’ the beer is an ole mate of ’is. One pint leads ter anuvver an’ by the time ’e’s finished Soapy’s three-parts pissed. From what we can make out ’e must ’ave fell asleep on the way back an’ the ’orse decided it’d bring ’im ’ome. Trouble was, the nag took one o’ the little turnin’s too sharp an’ the back wheel caught one o’ them iron posts they ’ave on the street corners. Over the top Soapy goes an’ lands on ’is ’ead in the kerb. Out like a light ’e was. When this copper comes up, ’e calls a doctor from nearby who must ’ave bin pissed ’imself ’cos ’e said Soapy was dead. Anyway, they cart ’im orf ter the mortuary an’ leave ’im on the slab wiv a sheet over ’im while they send fer the pathological bloke. Meanwhile, Soapy comes to an’ sits up. ’E told us the first fing ’e remembered was ’earin’ an awful scream. It must ’ave bin the mortuary attendant. ’E’s pissed orf an’ nobody can find ’im. Poor sod must ’ave bin frightened out of ’is wits seein’ Soapy sit up under that sheet.’
Carrie could not help bursting out laughing at Sharkey’s tale, and for the rest of the day kept herself busy and tried to forget her depression.
It was as she was preparing to leave that Fred called her into the back room.
‘I ’ope yer don’t fink I’m pryin’, Carrie, but yer seemed a bit upset terday,’ he said, looking at her closely.
She shrugged her shoulders. She wanted to tell Fred about her emotional problems, he seemed genuinely concerned, but instead she smiled briefly and decided it was too personal. ‘It’s nuffink, Fred,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s jus’ bin one o’ them days.’
He nodded and looked down at his feet as he struggled for words. ‘If there’s anyfink I can do, anyfink at all,’ he continued with an earnest tone to his voice.
Carrie shook her head. ‘Franks fer yer concern, Fred, but it’s nuffink really,’ she replied.
‘Like I said, I don’t wanna pry,’ he went on, looking up at her, ‘but lately yer’ve not bin yerself an’ I thought there might be somefing wrong. If yer don’t wanna talk about it that’s all right, but if yer ever feel the need I’m always willin’ ter listen. Yer see, Carrie, I fink a lot of yer. I’m not very good wiv words, but what I’m trying’ ter say is, if yer ever need a friend, somebody ter confide in, I’m ’ere.’
Carrie saw the strange, distant look in his eyes and felt a sudden shock as she realised. Fred was in love with her! There was no mistaking his expression, nor the feeling in his measured words. She searched his face as if looking for a way out and saw that he was flushing with embarrassment as he averted his gaze.
‘I’ll remember that, Fred,’ she answered softly, giving him a warm smile.
‘I’ve never ’ad much ter do wiv young ladies, it’s always bin the business,’ he went on haltingly. ‘I s’pose I missed out when I was younger, but it don’t stop me ’avin’ feelin’s. I feel a lot fer yer, Carrie, an’ if yer ever get ter finkin’ likewise I’d be proud ter walk out wiv yer.’
‘Yer a nice man, Fred,’ she told him. ‘I won’t ferget what yer said. I like yer a lot, but love ain’t the same as likin’ somebody.’
‘I realise that,’ he said, looking down at his feet again. ‘P’raps yer could learn ter love me, given time? I won’t ’arp on it an’ I promise I won’t pester yer, but jus’ remember, love can grow on somebody. I’d marry yer termorrer if yer’d ’ave me, an’ yer’d never regret it. I’d look after yer an’ care fer yer.’
She reached out and touched his arm in a spontaneous gesture. ‘I know that, Fred. I’ll keep it in mind what yer said, I promise.’
He smiled awkwardly as she walked to the door. ‘Mind ’ow yer go ’ome,’ he called out.
Carrie left the café with her head spinning. Fred was older than her and set in his ways, and it must have taken a great deal of resolve to declare his love for her. She admired him for that. She knew she should feel flattered at the compliment, but it left her with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.
The long summer days encouraged everyone out, and the women of Page Street stood on their clean
doorsteps after their chores were done and enjoyed a good chat together. All the business of the little turning was aired, and heads nodded eagerly as another choice piece of gossip spread from door to door.
‘Don’t say I told yer but Florrie Axford’s took a lodger in,’ Maisie Dougall said in little more than a whisper.
Aggie Temple’s eyes opened wide at the revelation. ‘Good Gawd! After all she said about ’avin’ anuvver man in the ’ouse,’ she gasped.
‘Well, I’m not sayin’ there’s anything in it, mind,’ Maisie replied quickly. ‘She’s got them two spare rooms upstairs, an’ what wiv the rent goin’ up as well ...’
‘What’s ’e like?’ Aggie asked.
‘’E’s a nice-lookin’ bloke. About twenty-four or twenty-five, I s’pose,’ Maisie went on. ‘’E’s got luvverly curly ’air an’ ’e’s very smart. I see ’im goin’ in yesterday. Smashin’ blue pin-stripe suit ’e ’ad on. I could see ’is shoes were polished an’ ’e ’ad a collar an’ tie on. Bit different from the blokes round ’ere.’
Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street Page 35