Gaslight In Page Street Part 6

'Well, what about the rest of yer?' Fred cried, his face dark with anger.

'I didn't want any part o' this,' Sid Bristow said, waving his hand as he walked away from the group.

'I can't afford ter be out o' collar,' Lofty Russell said. 'I've got eight kids ter fink about.'

'What about you, Sharkey?' Fred called out, glaring at the tall carman.

Sharkey shrugged his shoulders. 'It's no good unless we all stick tergevver. They won't back yer, Scratch,' he said, nodding in the direction of Lofty and Sid who were walking away from the group.

Fred Blackwell suddenly turned on his heel and stormed over to the office. 'Oi! What's your game?' he barked as he stepped through the open door.

Galloway stood up, his bulk dwarfing the slightly built carman who faced him angrily. 'I've jus' sacked a troublemaker, that's my game,' he growled.

Fred Blackwell glared up at the firm's owner, trembling with temper. 'I've worked fer some nasty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in my time,' he sneered, 'but you take the prize. Yer fink yer can ride roughshod over yer workers, an' if they as much as walk in yer light yer sack 'em. Well, let me tell yer, Galloway, yer gonna come ter grief before long. Somebody's gonna stand up ter yer one day, an' I 'ope I'm around ter see it. Yer can stick yer job up yer a.r.s.e! There's ovver jobs around. I won't starve.'

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office.

Chapter Seven.

Carrie Tanner pulled the collar of her coat up around her ears as she walked quickly along Spa Road on her way to work. A cold early morning wind whipped up the brittle brown leaves from the gutter and sent them swirling along the street as she pa.s.sed the council depot. Roadsweepers were pus.h.i.+ng their barrows out of the yard and she saw the water cart drive out, with the carman clicking his tongue at the horse to hurry it on. The sight of the horse-and-cart awoke memories, and Carrie's face became serious as she turned into Neckinger and walked along past the leather factories to her job at Wilson's.

It seemed only yesterday that Sara Knight had given her a present of a small, fan-shaped marcasite brooch and she had handed her friend a box containing three lace handkerchiefs as they left school for the last time. It was nearly nine months ago now, she recalled, and in that time she had seen Sara only on odd occasions. They had vowed to stay friends and go out together in the evenings and at weekends but it had been difficult. Sara seemed to be a prisoner in her own home since her father had gone into the sanatorium and she had had to take on the mantle of breadwinner. Her mother still did early morning cleaning when she was able, although from what Sara said she seemed to be getting weaker and was often confined to bed with a bad chest.

It was not very easy in her own home either, Carrie allowed. Her father seemed to be working harder than ever at the yard since the young Geoffrey Galloway had come into the business. He returned home exhausted and fell asleep every evening after he had finished his tea. George Galloway was spending less time at the yard now and more time on his other ventures, and the young man was learning the business. Carrie's father was having to make decisions for him and take the blame if things went wrong, which had happened on more than one occasion recently. There had been the fever which struck down the horses and all but paralysed the business. Then there was the trouble over Jack Oxford - Carrie had heard her parents talking about how he'd once bungled a telephone message and almost lost Galloway a lucrative contract. It appeared that Mr Galloway had wanted to sack the yard man a long while ago but her father had managed to talk him out of it. There was also the terrible time when her favourite horse t.i.tch had become ill and died. Carrie remembered how she had cried when the box van drew up and she watched from the upstairs window while poor t.i.tch was winched up and into the van by ropes that were tied to his legs. And just after that young Danny took ill with pneumonia and pleurisy and almost died. James had been ill too with scarlet fever, and had been taken to the fever hospital. Of the three boys only the quiet and studious Charlie seemed to stay well, she thought, hoping uneasily that the future would not bring more worries and troubles.

As she reached the factory where she worked, Carrie remembered fondly the times when she had gone on those trips with her father. Now the hay was delivered to the yard and things would never be the same. She sighed to herself as she entered the factory and slipped her time-card into the clock.

Wilson's was a busy firm of leather-dressers. Hides and skins were cured and dyed at the factory and Carrie worked on the top floor. Her job was to hang the heavy hides over stout wooden poles and to stretch the skins on frames. It was heavy, tiring work for which she was paid fifteen s.h.i.+llings a week, much better than the money Sara earned as a sackmaker, Carrie had to admit. At least the factory was airy and conditions there not as bad as in some of the other firms in the area. Her parents had been apprehensive when she told them about the job, but they realised that the alternative was for her to work in one of the food factories or go into service, where the money was very poor and she would have to live in as well.

At the factory Carrie worked alongside Mary Caldwell, a short, plump girl of seventeen who had dark frizzy hair and peered shortsightedly through thick spectacles. Mary was strong and agile for her size, and she had an infectious laugh that helped to brighten the day for Carrie. Mary spent most of her free time reading and it was she who explained to Carrie about the growing suffragette movement. She often went to their meetings and had been reprimanded on more than one occasion for sticking up posters and leaflets in the factory. Although she had a pleasant nature, Mary got angry at the disparaging remarks made about the movement by some of the other factory girls.

'They don't understand, Carrie,' she said as the two threw a large wet hide over a high pole. 'Those women are fightin' fer all of us. We should 'ave the vote. I wanna be able ter vote when my time comes. We gotta make those stupid people in Parliament listen. Until we do we're gonna be exploited, that's fer certain.'

Carrie wiped her hands down her rubber ap.r.o.n and took hold of another hide. 'My mum said she don't worry about votin',' she remarked. 'She said she leaves it ter me dad. 'E knows best, she reckons.'

Mary peered at her workmate through her steamy spectacles. 'That's where yer mum's wrong, Carrie,' she replied. 'Men vote fer what suits them, an' a lot of 'em don't bovver ter find out what they're votin' for anyway. When women get the vote they'll change fings, you wait an' see. 'Ere, I'll give yer some leaflets if yer like. Yer can read all about what the movement stands for, an' maybe yer can come wiv me ter one o' the meetin's.'

Carrie nodded as she helped Mary pull another wet hide from the trolley; her workmate made it all sound sensible to Carrie. Until now all the stories she had heard about those smart women who chained themselves to railings or threw themselves down on the steps of government buildings made her feel that it was a futile and silly campaign, but Mary's argument began to make her think. After all, it was the women in Page Street who had stopped Galloway running his horses along the street and putting the children in danger of being trampled. Her own mother had taken part, although she did not seem to have time for the suffragettes. Maybe she should find out more about the movement and go along with Mary to one of the meetings? It would be exciting to see those well-dressed women chaining themselves up and addressing large gatherings.

'I'll bring the leaflets in termorrer,' Mary said as they leaned against the trolley to catch their breath. 'I've got loads of 'em. 'Ere, by the way, Carrie, fancy comin' wiv me this dinner time? I've promised ter put a poster up outside the council depot.'

Carrie grinned. 'All right. We won't get arrested though, will we?'

Mary laughed. 'Not if we're quick!'

The morning seemed to pa.s.s slowly. When the factory whistle sounded at noon, the girls all trooped down to the ground floor where they sat in the yard to eat their lunch. Mary ate her thick brawn sandwich quickly and drank cold tea from a bottle. Carrie finished her cheese sandwich and gulped down the fresh, creamy milk she had bought on her way to work.

'C'mon, Carrie, we'll 'ave ter be quick,' said her friend, getting up and pus.h.i.+ng her gla.s.ses up on to the bridge of her nose.

The two slipped out of the factory and walked quickly towards the council depot. Outside the gates a few men were standing around, leaning against the railings and talking together. A few yards further on there was a large notice board fixed to the railings. When they reached it, Mary took a large poster from beneath her long coat. Without hesitating she tore down a notice of coming elections and spread out her notice in its place.

'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 gla.s.ses. '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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 att.i.tude. 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 apprentices.h.i.+p and now he had some ideas of his own to put forward.

Jack Oxford had finished his ch.o.r.es 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 cus.h.i.+on 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 somewhere 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 a.s.sured 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. b.l.o.o.d.y 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. '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 s.h.i.+rty wiv us, but that's 'is job. We all know that.'

Ted Derbys.h.i.+re 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d'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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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.