Reluctantly, Alma nodded. Fresh tears welled up. ‘Oh, Percy, I’m so ashamed. That a boy of mine . . .’ Words failed her.
‘Ashamed? What d’you mean, ashamed? Everyone gets sick sometimes. Even me. Nothing to get into such a state about. Except – oh.’ Light dawned. Percy bit his lip. It was a difficult one to ask tactfully. ‘He – er – he got something nasty, has he?’
Alma nodded.
‘And it’s not cancer or TB or nothing like that?’
A shake of the head.
‘Ah – so he’s got . . .?’
A nod. Alma pressed her hands to her trembling lips. ‘It’s horrible. So – so dirty.’
Percy looked disapproving. ‘He didn’t ought to have told you. You don’t go telling your mum that sort of thing. He should’ve known it’d upset you. Blimey, if I’d had a dose of the clap, I wouldn’t’ve told my mum. Would have broke her heart, it would. That’s where a little white lie comes in.’ Percy was incensed. He patted Alma’s hand. ‘But look, it ain’t the end of the world, you know. I mean, they got treatment for it, so long as it ain’t got too far. When I was at sea, I knew lots of blokes got it. Mind you, one sort’s worse than the other. Depends what he’s got. But he’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
‘But the treatment. I mean, that’s horrible too.’
There was nothing Percy could honestly say to that.
‘To think he must of gone with some horrible dirty prostitute. My boy!’
Percy refilled her glass. ‘Now, you drink this up, then you go upstairs and have a bit of a lie-down. Then when you’re feeling better, you get yourself ready and come on down. But not till you’re up to it, mind. I can look after that lot in the bar till then.’
‘But it’s busy in there this evening. You’ll be run off your feet,’ Alma tried to protest.
‘But nothing. You’re all in. I’ll manage all right. You just go upstairs and have a rest.’
Gratefully, Alma complied. The last thing she really wanted to do was to go in and be cheerful to the drinkers.
‘You’re a real pal, Percy,’ she said.
Percy gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘It ain’t nothing.’
She heaved herself wearily up the narrow stairs. On the dark landing at the top she hesitated. She had never been up here before. It was Percy’s private quarters. Feeling as if she was intruding, she opened the doors and peeped into the rooms. There was a neat parlour with a couple of nice easy chairs by the empty grate, then a bare kitchen that looked as if it was hardly used, a tiny spare room piled with boxes and trunks, and the bedroom, Percy’s bedroom, with a huge mahogany wardrobe, a marble-topped washstand and an iron bedstead. The curtains were drawn, making an inviting twilight. Alma hovered indecisively in the doorway. He had said to have a lie-down and, God knew, she needed it. Sitting in one of the easy chairs would not be the same. But it did not seem right to go and use his bed. She leant on the doorframe, her head throbbing. From down below a buzz of talk floated up with the smell of beer and Woodbines. Percy would be far too busy to come up and check on her. She tottered across the room and flopped down on top of the green cotton cover.
The room spun round her. The day’s events kept popping up in her mind in jagged fragments. The long journey with its changes of bus and tram. The grim exterior of the Scrubs. The clanging doors and distinctive prison smell. And Charlie, always Charlie, small and pathetic in his ugly uniform, sobbing his horror and fury at the loathsome disease he had contracted. She lay on her back, too tired to move a muscle, and stared up at the cracks in the whitewashed ceiling, while Charlie’s face danced before her. It was all very well Percy saying there was a cure, but she was gripped with the dreadful uncertainty that she was never going to see him again.
Gradually through the nightmare she became aware of the scent of the room, that comforting male smell of sweat and pipe smoke with a faint whiff of coal-tar soap. It wrapped round her, soothing her. The bed beneath her was soft and comfortable. It was as if Percy’s strong arms were holding her. It was so long since she had had a man of her own. There had been nobody since poor Ernie died. The taunting images began to fade, the headache receded, and before she realized it, Alma was drifting into a deep and healing sleep.
3
WILL LEANT FORWARD to catch what his father was trying to say.
‘You got to tell ’em, son.’ Tom’s voice was a painful croak. Just when he needed it most, he had gone down with a bout of laryngitis.
‘Me?’ Will was alarmed. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘You got to, son. You got to get ’em to act as one. It’s vital. Life or death.’
‘But what’ll I say?’
Tom closed his eyes briefly in exasperation. ‘You know. You heard me often enough. You can do it, I know you can. You’re my son. Don’t let me down.’
Guilt wormed uneasily through his guts. Will had let his father down often enough. He knew he was a disappointment to him. Even now, he would much rather make an excuse and slope off to the easy camaraderie of the pub. It was all right talking to his mates about joining the union and the need to fight, but standing up in front of a whole crowd and making a speech, that was quite different. He was afraid of failing in front of them.
‘But,’ he began.
‘Bloody hell!’ His father’s face was scarlet with exasperation. ‘It ain’t as if they don’t want to listen. They do. They want to know what to do, they want to be given a lead. That’s all they need, boy. Just tell ’em what they can do to make their voices heard. A child could do it. Your sisters could do it. Ellen, she’d tell ’em, or Daisy. They’d know what to say.’
Shamed and angry, Will straightened his back. Pretending a confidence he didn’t feel, he gave his father a slap on the shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll get ’em going.’
It was the end of a long hot Wednesday, with the stink of summer hanging over the whole West India docks. The men on the quay were caked in sweat and sticky from the raw sugar they had been unloading, and set upon by swarms of flies. All day rumours had been going round the docks. At last Tom had received some firm news.
Will got up on a handy box while his father banged a length of iron against the leg of a crane to gain attention. The men gathered round. The apathy of years had flown. They were all in a state of unrest, ready to stand and fight if they were just given the chance. All the same, as he looked down at the upturned, waiting faces, Will’s uncertain resolve quailed. They all expected inspiration and leadership from him, things he felt he couldn’t give. He’d seen his father turn rabbles into armies. He had heard the great orators on Tower Hill, Ben Tillett and Tom Mann, putting into words what the men felt, then turn that gut feeling into firm resolve. But he knew in his own heart that he was not the man they were. He was only an ordinary working man, like those gathered round him. He had no right to set himself up like this.
Just behind him, his father was making a painful effort to project the remnants of his voice and get him started.
‘Friends, a great fight has started,’ he managed to prompt.
Will cleared his throat. ‘Friends, a great fight has started,’ he repeated.
The buzz of talking died down. All those nearby were listening. Those further off were elbowing each other to be quiet. What next? What did he say now? There was no help from his father. To make it worse, he saw a couple of foremen making their way over, ready to break the meeting up. One of them, he realized, was Alf Grant.
‘You know what’s been going on these last few days,’ he said. A growl of agreement went round. They were an easy audience, but Will knew he had not quite struck the right note. His father wouldn’t have put it like that. What was more, if he did not get them all going quickly, Grant and his mate were going to stop him before he started. He tried again.
‘We’re all in together on this, friends. We been waiting long enough!’
That was it. There were shouts of ‘Yeah’ and ‘Too right, mate’.
Ch
arged with the mood of assent, his mind was starting to function. His father always began by saying what the men already knew and agreed on.
‘The gov’nors and the leaders wanted us to accept sevenpence and ninepence. But what did we do? We told ’em to go back and think again!’
More shouts, and even one or two cheers. To his own amazement, Will found he was beginning to enjoy himself. The crowd round him was growing, with men coming in from other quays. He pitched his voice to be heard right to the back of the gathering. Hours of listening to speeches came to his aid. He spoke slowly so that each word could be appreciated, and paused between sentences.
‘Now, you probably heard already about the coalies. They weren’t in on this agreement in the first place. They started coming out Saturday for more pay. Monday there was over a thousand of ’em on strike. Yesterday the dockers been coming out in the Royals and the Surreys and today there’s more of them stopped away. But friends, do you know what our leaders said to ’em, Orbell and Tillett and Gosling? They said, “You men got to go back to work.” And do you know what our brothers in the Royals and the Surreys said?’
He paused and looked round. Alf Grant was still there, but he was staying at the edge of the crowd, his arms folded across his chest, silent.
‘Stuff going back to work!’ came a voice from the crowd.
‘Yeah, we want our eightpence a bleeding hour!’
The rumble of agreement swelled. They were all with him, but Will could feel the initiative slipping away. He had to shout louder to get them back again.
‘That’s right, that’s just what they said. And friends, you got a chance to say the same.’
Now they were listening again. He felt a huge exhilaration. He had them. They were hanging on every word. He cast his eyes over them, pulling them in. He spoke with clear emphasis.
‘Do you know what else Ben Tillett said, friends? He said it was the dockers’ own fault if they couldn’t get more than a rotten penny an hour more. Those were his very words. Our own fault! Because he don’t believe that we’re ready to back him. He don’t believe we’re ready to come out on strike and demand our rights. Tell me, friends, are you ready?’
All around him a great shout of assent went up. It raced through Will’s blood like strong liquor. He spread out his arms to quieten them down. Now was the moment.
‘Then you got to show him. Show Ben Tillett what you’re made of. This very evening, there’s a meeting at West Ham, a meeting for every docker in the union. This is your chance, friends. This is when you can say what you think. You got a right to tell ’em, and got to use that right. The gov’nors ain’t going to give way on this, friends. We got to show ’em we mean business. We got to show ’em this evening. I’m going to West Ham. My dad here’s going. What about you, brothers? Are you going to have your say?’
There was a roar. They were with him, every one. Will was borne up by it, the concerted power of all these men. He felt ten feet tall. He was a giant. He could fly. He waved his clenched fists in the air.
‘Eight pence! Eight pence!’ he yelled above the shouting.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Alf Grant and the other foreman disappearing into the safety of a transit shed.
The men took up his chant. Will jumped down off the box and the men parted to let him through. With his father at his shoulder, he strode towards the gates. The men fell in after him, still chanting, and they all marched out of the docks, the leader and his army. Will had at last found something to fill the hole Siobhan had left in his life.
‘You should’ve seen it. It was wonderful, flaming wonderful. You ever been to Trafalgar Square, girl?’
‘Once,’ Ellen said.
It had been with Harry, on a cold winter’s evening almost unimaginable in today’s stunning heat. She remembered the lights reflecting in the waters of the fountains, and the great lions, and the way she and Harry had laughed at the pigeons landing on the head of a woman foolish enough to encourage them with seed.
‘. . . As far as you can see,’ her father was saying. Ellen dragged her attention back to the present. This was important, what her father was telling them. He and the other men had just come back from a mass rally in the square.
‘Hundreds and hundreds of men – dockers, lightermen, stevedores, carmen, tugmen, sailing bargemen, ship repairers, coalies, deal porters – every trade you can think of what works in the port. They was all there. And the banners – you’d’ve liked the banners, all bright colours and silk embroidery. Beautiful. And the bands. I tell you, it brought a lump to my throat, it did, seeing us all there. We are the people, you know. We’re what England’s all about, not the King, nor the bloody government, nor the Army. It’s us, the working people. We are something. And do you know, I think a lot of us knew that today. We knew we counted.’
Ellen nodded. She understood what her father meant.
Martha said nothing. Ellen guessed that she just wanted to hear the outcome of the meeting. But her father was too full of the day’s events to give it away. Flushed with heat and triumph, he was spinning the tale out, savouring every moment as he relived it.
‘We got ’em on the run now. Sir Albert Rollit, him what was arbitrating for the men working on the overseas ships, he decided for us. Said we should be paid eightpence and a shilling. You should’ve heard the cheering! Rang round the square, it did. I reckon they could’ve heard it at Buckingham Palace.’
‘So you got it, then? Got what you was asking for?’ Martha said.
The men would be going back to work in that case, and the worry about rent and food would be over.
‘Ah no, not all of us. Just the men on the overseas trade. Clever, see? Keeping us divided, hoping we’ll fall out and squabble amongst ourselves.’
‘No port rate, then?’ Ellen said.
‘That’s it, girl, no port rate, and not a word about union recognition, neither. And nothing for the coalies or the lightermen. So do you know what happened?’
Both women shook their heads. There was no stopping Tom now. They were required to be a sympathetic audience.
‘Harry Gosling, he tells us as how this is a test case for the Federation, how the gov’nors’ll be expecting us to take what’s offered and go back to work. He says we got to stick together and support each other until the job is finished.’
‘Just what you been saying,’ Ellen commented.
‘That’s right. And all them men, from all them trades, including the ones what have been granted the eightpence and a shilling, they all agreed with him. When it was put to the show of hands, they all voted to stay out until everyone’s got what they are rightfully due. It was a wonderful moment. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. I was so proud of ’em. All them hands so straight and determined, all them men willing to stay out till we won the day. I could’ve cried, honest to God I could. This is a turning point, just you wait and see; a turning point in the history of the docks. The men have found the way to make themselves heard at last.’
When Ellen left a little later to see if Gerry had arrived home, she found that the whole street was buzzing with the news. Nearly all the men who were employed in dock work had been to the meeting, and the women had been awaiting word of the outcome. Now they were gathered in small groups, chewing it over.
It was another sweltering day, and what with that and the uncertainty over the strike, tempers were getting short. It gave Ellen an uneasy feeling, walking the short stretch of pavement to Alma’s house. At her parents’ place, she was at one with the strikers; it was her family right in the heart of it. But once she went back to Alma’s it was not the same. Gerry was unaffected by the stoppage, as plenty of his customers worked in the myriad manufacturing trades of the East End, and Alma’s job at the Rum Puncheon was still going, despite the fact that the men no longer had drinking money. For the time being, it was going on the slate, and the temperature and the idle hours made for good custom. Ellen had the impression that people fell silent as she pas
sed and that the eyes following her were not altogether friendly. She pretended she had not noticed. She nodded and spoke to people as she went by, refusing to believe that those she had been brought up with would turn against her just because she was not directly affected by the strike. All the same, she was quite relieved to reach the safety of the house and put the front door between herself and the street.
Later on in the day, an amazing piece of news reached them. All over the docklands, the women were coming out on strike and marching round the streets encouraging others to join them. In Millwall, the workers were leaving the great food-processing factories and demanding a better hourly rate. Most exciting of all, at Maconochie’s the ringleader was said to be Daisy.
The whole street turned out to welcome the girls home. Tired and sweaty but euphoric, they arrived back, still headed by the triumphant Daisy. Ellen fell on her sister and hugged her.
‘I always said you’d make a union leader.’
Tom patted her on the back. ‘You done wonderful, girl. Wonderful! I’m that proud of you.’
Basking in the glory, they all went to Ellen’s for tea, since she was the only one who still had food on the table.
Gerry returned home to find a full house.
‘Mum gone?’ he asked, seeing nothing but various Johnsons.
‘Yeah, she went in early. Percy’s busy up the Puncheon today, what with the girls coming out and all. Chalk on that slate’s going to be a mile long at this rate,’ Ellen said.
‘He won’t have no beer to sell soon. They’re saying up the market the breweries have only got three more days’ hops and four days’ coal.’
This really did silence them for a moment.
‘Blimey,’ Wilf Hodges said at last. ‘We thought we’d run short of food, but we never thought we’d run out of beer.’
‘Food’s getting blooming ridiculous,’ Ellen said. ‘There’s hardly anything up the West Ferry Road, not fresh stuff, and what there is is a dreadful price.’
‘You shouldn’t buy nothing what’s more expensive than usual, girl,’ her father told her. ‘That’s profiteering, that is. Making money out of the working man just because there’s shortages. Shopkeepers ought to be shot for lining their own pockets at a time like this.’
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