Gaslight In Page Street Part 24

Nellie felt the conversation was getting too depressing and she looked across at Florrie. 'What's that lodger o' yours do for a livin', Flo?' she asked quickly.

''E's still a bit of a mystery ter me. 'E goes out in the mornin' an' I don't see 'im till late in the evenin'. I get 'im 'is tea an' sometimes 'e's orf out again or 'e goes up in 'is room. Whenever I ask 'im what 'is job is, 'e jus' tells me 'e's in buyin' an' sellin'. That's all I ever get out of 'im. Mind yer, I'm not one ter pry, an' if 'e don't wanna tell me that's up to 'im.'

''E's a smart-lookin' bloke,' Maisie said, glancing quickly at Nellie. 'I'm surprised I 'aven't 'eard the neighbours talkin', Flo. Yer know what they're like.'

'I couldn't give a monkey's,' Florrie replied quickly. 'I'm almost old enough ter be 'is bleedin' granny. Mind yer though, there's many a good tune played on an old fiddle,' she added, laughing.

The women sipped their tea in silence for a while, wrapped up in their thoughts, and then Maisie turned to Nellie Tanner. ''Ere, 'ow's your Carrie gettin' on wiv 'er young man, Nell?' she asked.

'I dunno,' Nellie sighed. 'That gel's worryin' me. Tommy's a nice enough bloke but I can't see anyfing comin' of it. 'Is ole muvver's a p.i.s.s artist by all accounts, an' the poor sod's run orf 'is feet what wiv lookin' after 'er an' goin' ter work. 'Im an' Carrie don't go out much, an' when they do Carrie seems ter come back 'ere wiv the 'ump.'

'Bleedin' shame,' Maisie remarked. 'Is she still in wiv them there suffragettes?'

Nellie shook her head. 'Not since she's bin workin' at the cafe. She 'as ter go in on Sat.u.r.days, an' then there's this bloke.'

Maisie pursed her lips. 'I was readin' about that forcefeedin' they're doin' in the prisons, an' there was somefink in the papers about this new law they've brought out. When the women are nearly starved ter death, they let 'em out ter get better then make 'em go back in again. Seems a bleedin' liberty, if yer ask me.'

'That's down ter that ole goat Asquith,' Florrie told them. ''E brought that law in. It's the Cat an' Mouse Act. They're tryin' ter get it stopped.'

'I should fink so too,' Nellie said forcefully. 'The way they treat those women is disgustin'. Carrie was tellin' me only the ovver night about some o' the fings that go on. She said 'er friend who she used ter work wiv was arrested an' put in prison. She told Carrie they made 'em strip an' wash in cold water, an' when they won't eat the warders ram rubber tubes right down their gullets. Mus' be awful. That's what worried me about my gel, when she used ter go on those marches. I was worried sick till she got 'ome.'

'D'yer fink women will ever get the vote?' Maisie asked her friends.

Florrie looked at the other two and her eyes narrowed with conviction. 'It'll come as sure as night follers day,' she declared. 'What we gotta fink about is what we do wiv the vote when we get it. We've gotta be a lot more fussy when it comes ter puttin' people in power. If we don't start askin' questions an' tellin' 'em what it is we want instead of 'avin' 'em dictate to us, then we might just as well leave it ter the men, an' they've bin b.a.l.l.sin' it up fer donkeys' years.'

Later, as Nellie stood at her front door watching her two friends walk off along the turning, she heard the distant sound of a bra.s.s band. It slowly grew louder as it approached and the sound of a ba.s.s drum carried down from the main road. She could see them now, pa.s.sing the end of the turning, uniformed bandsmen being followed by yet another batch of volunteers. It all seemed so unreal, she thought, almost like a carnival. How long would it be before they returned, if they ever did? How many of them would be crippled and scarred for life?

She closed the door quickly.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

The first Yuletide of the war was a quiet one for Bermondsey folk, with many empty places around the tables. Most of the early volunteers were now fighting in France, and news from the front had been bad. The first casualty lists of troops involved in the Mons retreat and the Battle of Ypres were being published in the newspapers, and hospital ships had begun arriving from France and Belgium before Christmas. Stories of carnage in the mud and slime, and the horrors of sickness and frostbite suffered in the winter trenches, had started to temper the recruiting fervour, but young men still enlisted, roused and fired by tales of heroism and the chance to escape the hardships of their everyday lives. Men who had stood outside the dock gates and fought each other over a day's work turned their backs on Bermondsey and set off for France. Young lads in their early teens, sick of life in the factories, lied about their age and joined their elder brothers at the front. Posters were appearing on the streets now, bearing a picture of Lord Kitchener pointing his finger, and above the legend, 'Join Your Country's Army! G.o.d save the King' and, 'Your Country needs YOU'. Another message struck home to many who were undecided about joining up, asking the question, 'Be honest with yourself. Be certain that your so-called reason is not a selfish excuse.'

Thousands of young men who had volunteered in the first days of the war had been rejected on medical grounds, many of them underweight and suffering from industrial-related diseases, tuberculosis or chronic bronchitis. They returned to their jobs, often to be branded as cowards by those who did not know why they had been rejected. The white feather was adopted as a mark of cowardice, and sent anonymously through the post to men not in the services. Stories abounded of young men who took their own lives when they received the white feather after being rejected for military service. Many of the men who had not yet volunteered received the symbol of the craven and immediately enlisted.

Frank Galloway received his white feather in the morning post. When he opened the envelope and saw it, he felt the hot blood rushing to his face. It was like a kick to the stomach. It took him a few moments to collect himself. He sat back from his desk and looked around him. Everyone appeared preoccupied with their own affairs and no one had seemed to take an undue interest in him while he was opening his mail. It could be anyone, he thought as he put the letter into his coat pocket. It wouldn't have been sent to him by any of Bella's crowd, he felt sure of that at least. They all seemed to be against the war, and many of them were openly talking about refusing to enlist if it became compulsory. It could be someone from Page Street who had a down on the firm, he thought, or even one of the carmen who might have sent it out of sheer malice. The list of suspects could go on and on and there was no use dwelling on it, Frank decided. He promised himself that he would burn it when he got home as an act of defiance.

Later that day he was summoned to the managing director's office.

'I expect you'll be leaving us soon,' Abe Johnson said, brushing his hand over his clipped moustache.

'The army you mean, sir?'

'What else, Frank, unless it's the navy you've got your sights on?' Abe queried.

'To be honest, I haven't given it much consideration,' Frank replied, eyeing the elderly man who faced him across the huge leather-topped desk. 'I thought we were hard pressed now that Roseman and Burns have gone, as well as Miss Ashley?'

'Nonsense, lad. We'll bring back some of our old servants to fill the breach while you young men are off doing your bit for King and Country. Patriotism, lad. We must all make sacrifices,' Abe a.s.serted, banging his fist down on the desk. 'Young Roseman's regiment is a good one, or maybe you'd prefer the King's Royal Rifles or the Rifle Brigade? They're first-cla.s.s outfits. You should be able to get a commission in any one of them with your education, laddie. They're both East End regiments too. You come from the East End, don't you?'

'South London, sir,' Frank corrected him.

'Well, that's of no consequence. You go off and volunteer with our blessing. I'm sure we can fill your place for the duration.'

Frank left the inner sanctum feeling even more depressed than when he had entered. Stupid old fool must be losing his reasoning, he thought. The firm had already played its part. The business would end up being run by a lot of doddering old fossils who'd forgotten how to prepare accounts years ago. They'd probably be dying on the job all over the place. Well, he wouldn't be browbeaten into enlisting, he told himself. Abe Johnson could think what he liked.

Frank returned to his desk and sat for a while looking at a pile of papers he had not yet started work on. While he was lost in thought, Ginger Parry sauntered over. Ginger had been with the firm since its beginning and was now nearing retirement age.

'Trouble, Frank?' he asked. 'You look down in the dumps. The old boy hasn't upset you, has he?'

Frank gave him a brief smile. 'Not really. He asked me in to find out what my plans were.'

'About enlisting?'

Frank nodded. 'I thought he'd be only too glad to keep me here, but I thought wrong.'

Ginger grinned. 'I'm afraid you don't know the old man. He's from the old school. Both his sons are serving with the colours. Sandhurst and all that. His elder boy's a major, and if he survives this war he'll most likely be made up to staff officer. I don't think he'd mind too much if you enlisted tomorrow, Frank.'

George Galloway sat with William in the yard office, cradling a gla.s.s of whisky in his hand.

'It's gonna put a lot more work on all of us, Will,' he said. 'I'll 'ave ter take over the accounts meself now, until I see what young Frank's intendin' ter do. I'm 'opin' 'e's gonna agree ter take over from Geoff.'

William nodded. 'I s'pose yer expected yer lad ter volunteer, didn't yer, George? All the youngsters seem pretty keen ter get in the fight. My Jim an' Charlie are both goin' soon. I'm tryin' ter talk young Danny out o' goin' but I s'pose 'e'll join 'is bruvvers.'

Galloway took a swig from his gla.s.s and pulled a face. 'I s'pose if we were younger we'd be in it. Look at the sc.r.a.pes we got in as kids. It's all a big adventure ter them, till they get up the front.'

William shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, I 'ope it's all over soon.'

'It'll drag on fer a few years, mark my words,' Galloway replied, emptying his gla.s.s. He stared down at his boots for a few moments in silence. 'I should fink we'll be gettin' busy, the way fings are. What about the 'orses? Any lame?'

William shook his head. 'They're all in good condition, except the Clydesdale. He's bin off colour fer a few days an' I'm restin' 'im in the small stable, just in case it's anyfink infectious. I don't fink it's anyfink ter worry about though.'

Galloway poured himself another drink and offered the bottle to his foreman. Normally William would have refused but today he took the bottle and poured himself a stiff draught. 'What about Jake Mitch.e.l.l?' he asked suddenly. 'Is 'e volunteerin'?'

George laughed. 'Jake enlist? Yer jokin', ain't yer? He gets all the fightin' 'e wants in the ring, or 'e did until the war started. 'E was doin' well too. Four fights 'e 'ad an' they all ended pretty quick. We've run out of opponents, an' now all the young men 'ave joined up it's gonna be even 'arder ter get 'im a match. I was talkin' ter Don McBain the ovver evenin' an' 'e reckons they'll be forced ter pack it in till the war's over. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y shame really.'

William made no reply. He disliked Mitch.e.l.l intensely, although he had to admit that the man had given him no reason to apart from the one time when he first came to work at the yard. He did his work well enough, and after the roasting he had received from Florrie Axford his driving had been faultless. It was his surly manner that William did not like, and the mocking look in his eye which barely veiled the violence and ruthlessness lurking just below the surface.

Galloway had settled down with the bottle of Scotch. William made his excuses and walked out into the yard. Jack Oxford was leaning on his broom, a vacant look on his long gaunt face, and beyond the gates William could see Florrie talking with Maisie in the morning sunshine and Sadie whitening her front doorstep. The country was at war and most of the young men had gone to fight in France but around him nothing seemed to have changed. At the end of the turning the knife-grinder was busy, his foot working the treadle as he bent his head over the revolving stone. Trams pa.s.sed by in Jamaica Road and women came into the turning carrying shopping-baskets. Everything appeared to be calm and normal, he thought, but who could begin to imagine what was happening behind a mult.i.tude of closed street doors and drawn curtains now that the casualty lists were being made known?

Carrie left her house that evening and met Tommy at the street corner. He had asked her to go with him to the Star Music Hall and she took his arm as they crossed the main road and walked along towards Abbey Street. It was getting dark as they pa.s.sed the Catholic church and they could hear the choir practising and the solemn notes of the church organ.

Tommy had been unusually quiet and as they turned into Abbey Street, he broke his silence.

'I've volunteered, Carrie,' he said suddenly.

She stopped and turned to face him. 'Yer've volunteered?! I don't believe it,' she cried.

He nodded and smiled sheepishly. 'I went an' signed on terday.'

'But what about yer muvver?' she asked incredulously.

'Me eldest bruvver's gonna take 'er ter live wiv 'im an' 'is wife,' he replied.

'I don't understand,' Carrie said, her brows knitting together. 'All this time yer've bin lookin' after yer mum 'cos none of yer family would, an' now yer tell me yer bruvver's gonna take 'er?'

Tommy looked down at his shoes. 'I went ter see Bob an' I told 'im I'd enlisted. I told 'im I'd done my share of carin' fer the ole lady an' if 'e didn't take 'er she'd be left on 'er own an' end up in the work'ouse. We 'ad a few words but 'e finally agreed ter take 'er fer a month or two, an' then 'e's gonna get one o' the ovvers ter do their share.'

'But s'posin' Bob 'ad said no, would yer still have gone an' left 'er on 'er own?' Carrie asked him.

Tommy smiled. 'I volunteered after 'e said 'e'd take 'er. I wouldn't 'ave left the ole gel on 'er own if 'e'd said no.'

Carrie pulled away from him as he attempted to take her arm and walk on. 'But what about us?' she cried angrily. 'Yer could 'ave made some sort of arrangement like this ages ago. Yer know what it's bin doin' ter both of us. Yer couldn't do it fer us, but yer could do it so yer could go away an' fight. I jus' can't understand yer, Tommy.'

He looked into her eyes and saw tears welling up. 'I know yer don't, Carrie,' he began softly, 'an' I can't explain it really. But yer gotta try an' see it from my point o' view. It's bin 'ard copin' wiv the ole lady. I've 'ad ter put 'er in bed when she's bin too drunk ter make it up the stairs. I've 'ad ter pay the neighbours ter do the washin' an' ironin'. I've cooked the meals an' kept the place clean, on top o' goin' ter work, I might say. I managed though an' I never begrudged doin' it, but now the war's started I can't miss out on it. I've got ter be part of it. A woman can never be expected ter understand 'ow a man feels about these fings. It's just somefink inside me that tells me I mus' go, even though I might get killed or badly wounded.'

Carrie shook her head slowly, trying to understand the idiocy of it all. 'D'yer fink it's some sort o' game?' she asked, her voice rising. ''Aven't yer read about what's 'appenin' out in France wiv all them soldiers bein' killed or maimed? Christ Almighty! Yer mad, Tommy. I'll never understand yer. I never will, as long as I live.'

He could find no words to say that would calm her, no words to explain how he felt inside, and stood facing her helplessly as she backed away from him.

'We're finished!' she sobbed. 'I don't wanna see yer again, ever!'

Tommy reached his hands out to her but she turned away and hurried off, her footsteps echoing loudly in the dark street.

At the Galloway house in Tyburn Square Nora Flynn was sitting beside the kitchen fire with the evening edition of the Star lying in her lap. She had finished reading the latest news from the front and glanced up quickly as Josephine bounded into the room.

'I was just about ter start on that silver,' she said, yawning and stretching out her feet towards the fire.

'Leave it, Nora, you look tired,' Josephine said, squatting down on her haunches on the hearthrug and holding her hands out to the warmth.

Nora shook her head and eased herself out of the rocking chair. 'Never leave fer termorrer what yer can do terday is what I say,' she intoned with feigned severity, wagging her finger at the young woman. 'I like ter keep meself busy. It stops me finkin'.'

'You're worried about Geoff, aren't you,' Josephine said, getting up and turning her back to the fire.

Nora went over to the dresser and picked up a large silver salver which she loaded with small silver dishes from the cupboard. 'These should 'ave bin done ages ago. They're really stained,' she said.

Josephine watched as Nora spread a cloth over the table and laid out the pieces of silverware. 'You are worried, I can tell,' she said. 'It's the news in the paper. I've already seen it.'

Nora rubbed away furiously at a dish with a piece of cloth she had wrapped around her forefinger. ''E'll be goin' soon. I wish 'e 'adn't volunteered,' she sighed.

Josephine sat down at the table facing Nora and rested her chin in her cupped hands. 'I've decided to leave school,' she announced, looking at Nora's bent head.

'But yer only seventeen. Yer've got anuvver year ter go yet,' Nora replied, looking up quickly.

Josephine hunched her shoulders. 'A lot of the girls are leaving now the war's on. I've decided to train to be a nurse. They need lots of nurses and it's what I want to do,' she said firmly.

'And what did your farvver say when yer told 'im?' Nora asked, breathing on the dish and rubbing it with the cloth.

'I haven't told him yet, but I don't care what Father thinks, I'm doing it anyway,' Josephine answered defiantly.

Nora studied the young woman for a few moments then dropped her gaze to the dish she was polishing. How quickly she had grown up, and how like her mother she was in looks. She had her father's determination and wilfulness as well, and would not be easily dissuaded. 'But I thought yer've gotta be eighteen before yer can be a nurse,' Nora queried.

'Yes, that's right, but they said I could be a volunteer with the Red Cross,' Josephine replied quickly. 'I can do duty at the railway stations when the wounded soldiers come home on those troop trains. There's lots of things to do, like giving the men drinks and helping them write letters to their family. There's other things I can manage, too. They need volunteers to help with the dressings and things.'

'It doesn't sound very nice fer a young gel your age ter do those sort o' fings,' Nora said, concerned. 'They won't be pretty sights. There's men what's bin blinded an' crippled, an' some o' those wounds'll be terrible ter see. Are yer sure that's what yer wanna do, luv?'

Josephine nodded with conviction. 'I've made up my mind, Nora. It's something worthwhile and I won't be put off.'

Nora smiled and put down the dish. 'No, I don't fink yer will an' I'm proud of yer, but yer must realise, Josie, it won't be an easy fing ter do. Yer'll be seein' terrible sights. I was readin' about these casualties in the paper an' it was makin' my stomach turn.'

'I've read it, Nora, and I know what it'll be like,' the girl replied. 'I've been worried about Geoffrey and I got to thinking, supposing he got wounded. I'd want someone to care for him and make him comfortable. I couldn't just get a job in an office and leave it up to other people to volunteer. I just couldn't.'

'I know, dear,' Nora said kindly. 'Now that's enough o' the war fer the time bein'. Pa.s.s me the rest o' that silver, could yer? Gawd, I'll be 'ere all night wiv this lot.'

The kitchen fire burned brightly. Its flames were reflected in the shining silver dishes lined up on the dresser. Heavy curtains were drawn tightly against the darkness outside, and while the rising wind howled and rattled against the windows the copper kettle was warming steadily on the hob. The two women sat comfortably by the hearth. Nora's rocker creaked as it moved back and forth. The older woman looked down at her sewing through gla.s.ses perched on the end of her nose, and the younger sat back in her chair, pale blue eyes staring unblinking into the glowing coals. Neither had spoken for some time, each wrapped up in her own private thoughts. The newspaper lay discarded at Nora's feet, the headline banner proclaiming, 'Heavy Casualties at the Marne'.

Nora put down her sewing and took up the tongs to place a large k.n.o.b of coal on the fire. The shower of sparks roused Josephine from her reverie and she cast her eyes around the shadowy room.

'Did you know my mother very well, Nora?' she said suddenly.

'What made yer ask that, Josie?'

'Oh, I was just thinking.'

Nora pressed her feet down on the floor to stop her chair rocking and folded her arms. 'I knew yer muvver, but not all that well,' she replied slowly. 'I used ter meet 'er sometimes an' we'd stop an' talk like yer do. She was always very pleasant, an' she liked ter talk about the boys an' about yer farvver. She never was one ter talk about 'erself as I remember.'

'Do you think Father and her were happy together, Nora? Really happy, I mean?' Josephine asked.

'Yer a strange gel! The fings that go frew that 'ead o' yours. 'Course they were - at least, I should fink so. I never 'ad reason ter fink ovverwise,' Nora answered.

Josephine stared down at the fire again. 'Are you and Father . . . I mean, do you and Father like each other?' she asked falteringly.

Nora looked at the top of Josephine's lowered head. 'If yer mean, do we be'ave like man an' wife, no. At least not any more.'

'You and Father have been lovers then?'

'Yes.'

'I guessed as much,' Josephine said, looking directly at Nora.

'Does that shock yer?'