Gaslight In Page Street Part 28

'No buts. Yer'll do as yer told,' Galloway shouted at him. 'Wait till yer got the foreman's job before yer start queryin' what I say.'

Frank had been silent during the whole of the episode, but as soon as Mitch.e.l.l had left the office he turned to his father. 'I don't think you should have said that to Mitch.e.l.l about the foreman's job,' he said with a frown. 'You could give him a few ideas and cause a lot of trouble between him and Tanner.'

George grinned as he reached for the bottle of Scotch. 'I know what I'm doin', Frank,' he said confidently. 'That foreman o' mine is gettin' ter be a pain in the a.r.s.e lately. I know 'e don't like Mitch.e.l.l an' it's obvious ter me the feelin's mutual. It's a case o' playin' one against the ovver.'

'Well, I'd tread carefully if I were you,' Frank remarked. 'Tanner's got quite a temper. You said yourself the man knows horses, and if you pushed him too far and he had to leave we'd be hard pressed to find someone as reliable as him.'

'Mitch.e.l.l knows 'orses too,' George replied. ''E's capable o' lookin' after the minor ailments an' 'e can always call the vet in if 'e don't know what ter do - that's all Tanner does. An' as far as the men go, I don't fink Jake would 'ave much trouble on that score.'

Frank studied his fingernails thoughtfully. 'Will Tanner's been with you a long time, Father,' he said, frowning. 'Wouldn't you regret losing him?'

George gulped a mouthful of whisky. 'Look, Frank, I've got a business ter run,' he said, glaring at his son. 'Will Tanner knows that. I get a bit fed up wiv the man comin' in 'ere tryin' ter mess around wiv my affairs. 'E don't seem ter know 'is place sometimes, an' 'e takes a bit too much fer granted. All the time 'e's worked fer me 'e's 'ad no rent ter pay an' I don't give 'im bad wages. It's about time 'e knew what goes around 'ere an' what don't. Anyway, 'e wouldn't 'ave much trouble gettin' anuvver job wiv 'is knowledge of 'orses.'

Frank watched as his father poured another Scotch. It was just an angry outburst, he told himself, but hearing him speak so ruthlessly about an old friend made Frank feel a little afraid. The old man seemed to have become even more obsessed with money lately, to the exclusion of everything else. The value of friendship, and the mutual respect that grew between people after long acquaintance, apparently meant nothing to him. It had been Geoffrey's main worry that having sown the seeds, their father would one day reap a bitter harvest.

Chapter Thirty-one.

Carrie held her summer dress above her ankles as she stepped down from the tram at Greenwich. The late August Sat.u.r.day afternoon was warm and sunny, with just the hint of a breeze, and the sky was cloudless. She crossed the busy street and walked through the tall iron gates into Greenwich Park, eager to meet Freda and Jessica after such a long time. A group of children screamed and laughed loudly as they played together beneath a leafy tree and in front of her a woman was pushing a perambulator along the gravel path which led up to the observatory. Carrie could see the copper dome glistening up ahead of her through the branches of tall trees which lined the path. In the distance she could hear the m.u.f.fled sounds of a bra.s.s band playing. It was the bandstand where the three of them had arranged to meet and Carrie hummed a tune as she climbed the rise briskly in the warm sunlight.

It had been such a surprise meeting Jessica a week ago in Jamaica Road. She had been on her way from the market to catch a tram home to Deptford. They had not really had a chance to talk properly but Jessica had suggested that the three old friends should get together, and Carrie immediately welcomed her idea. Both Freda and Jessica were married with children now and it would be interesting to see how much they had changed, she thought. It would be nice, too, just to talk about little, everyday things and try to forget the war and all its tragedies and heartbreak.

Carrie was hot and breathless when she reached the level. Ahead of her she could see the bandstand and people standing around or sitting on the gra.s.s, listening to the Royal Artillery band. The scarlet and blue uniforms of the bandsmen contrasted brightly with the pale cotton dresses of the older women, who stood around beneath parasols, and the sober suits of their menfolk. Most of the younger women were alone or walking in pairs, but there were a few who were being escorted, and one or two on the arm of soldiers. Carrie's eyes searched the green and suddenly caught sight of her two friends, sitting together on the gra.s.s. When they spotted her they got up on to their knees and waved excitedly. Carrie hurried over and kissed the two of them on the cheek before she sank down beside them on the gra.s.s, puffing after her tiring walk.

The band was playing 'Roses of Picardy' and the rich sounds carried out over the wide expanse of green as the three friends sat together. Carrie could not help noticing the difference between her two old workmates. Jessica was wearing a smart dress adorned with b.u.t.tons and bows, and her mousy hair was well groomed and neatly pulled up into a bun on top of her head. Her face still had a chubby look and her ample neck was bulging under her high lace collar. Freda seemed poorly dressed by comparison. Her long grey skirt looked worn and her frilly white blouse hung loose on her thin frame. Freda had never been robust but Carrie was shocked to see how gaunt she had become. Her cheeks were hollow and her large eyes seemed unusually bright and staring. She looked ill, Carrie thought.

''Ere, I almost fergot,' Jessica was saying, 'guess who I saw the ovver day? Mary Caldwell. She's doin' war-work in some factory, makin' sh.e.l.ls fer the guns, so she told me. I was surprised she left that job wiv the suffragettes. She said they've closed the office till the war's over.'

Freda held her handkerchief up as she coughed and wiped her watering eyes. 'I 'eard they've agreed ter call off the protests an' do war-work, providin' women get the vote,' she said, when she had recovered her breath.

'Are yer all right, Freda?' Carrie asked with concern. 'Yer don't look well.'

Her friend nodded. 'It's jus' me chest. The doctor said it's bronchitis. Trouble is, I'm pregnant again. He told me I shouldn't 'ave any more kids but what can I do? I can't lock 'im out o' the bedroom. Knowin' my bloke, 'e'd break the door down if I tried that.'

Jessica tutted. 'My Gerald's not like that,' she said quickly. ''E's very good really. In fact, 'e's mindin' the two little ones so I could come out this afternoon.'

'I could see my ole man doin' that,' Freda snorted. ''E's good at makin' babies but 'e don't like lookin' after 'em. Me mum's lookin' after mine. She reckoned it'd do me good ter get out fer a bit.'

Carrie suddenly felt as though a cloud had obscured the bright sun. Marriage had changed Freda for the worse, and she felt very sorry for her. All her old bounce and liveliness seemed to be missing, instead she looked crushed. Carrie sighed inwardly as she reclined on the cool gra.s.s. Was that what she herself could expect from marriage? she wondered with a sinking feeling.

Jessica was staring at her. 'Ain't yer got a young man, Carrie?' she asked suddenly.

She shook her head. 'I was walkin' out wiv a young man but we parted. 'E's in the army now.'

'My Gerald wanted ter join the army but 'e said 'e couldn't bear ter leave me an' the children,' Jessica remarked. 'We're worried now they've made it compulsory for married men too. 'E'll 'ave to go now anyway.'

'Our Jimmy an' Charlie are both in the army,' Carrie told them. 'And Danny said 'e's goin' soon, an' four o' the Sullivan boys 'ave joined up too. All the young men 'ave gone from our street. It seems so quiet now.'

Freda was racked with another spasm of coughing and leaned back, exhausted. 'I'm gonna get rid o' this one,' she said after a while.

Carrie and Jessica stared at her, visibly shocked. Freda had spoken so casually.

'Anuvver kid would finish me,' she went on. 'I know I'm takin' a chance but this woman's s'posed ter be pretty good. I jus' 'ope it don't turn out like the last time. That ole bag I went ter see nearly killed me.'

Carrie could see the despair and veiled fear in Freda's eyes and looked away, glancing around at the well-dressed women and gazing over towards the bandstand. The musicians were striking up with 'A Bird in a Gilded Cage' and as the brazen melody sounded out across the gra.s.s people around them began to sing the sad words. Carrie had been looking forward to a pleasant afternoon with her friends. Now she was beginning to feel desolate.

Suddenly she sat up straight. 'C'mon, let's go an' get a nice cup o' tea an' a fluffy cake,' she said, smiling. 'My treat.'

The cafe was busy but the young women soon found a shaded table out on the terrace and made themselves comfortable. As they sipped their tea they watched the horse-drawn carriages grind past along the gravel drive, and Freda seemed to cheer up. She giggled as she took a bite from her cream cake and the filling squirted out on to her chin. Jessica sat upright, trying to look demure as she bit into her own cake, but she ended up looking messier than Freda as the cream spread around her mouth. For a moment then Carrie felt that they could have been back at the leather factory. They were all laughing again, just like they used to at their factory bench or when they went on those tiring and often frightening marches. She thought of the times they had carried the heavy banners and tried to look very confident and bold, although inside they were all nervous and fearful of what might happen to them. She thought of Mary Caldwell and the determined look on her round face as she chanted the slogans and cheeked the police and hecklers. Carrie felt the smile on her face growing wider and wider, and as she bit her own cake the cream squirted up on to her nose.

Jessica laughed as she watched. 'Penny fer yer thoughts,' she said, chuckling.

Carrie smiled. 'I was jus' finkin' about when we used ter go on them marches. I was terrified.'

'So was we all,' Jessica admitted.

'I used ter admire those posh women who got 'emselves locked up. They didn't seem worried at all,' Freda remarked. 'I used ter like that one who was always on about women goin' on s.e.x strikes. Yer remember 'er, the woman wiv that short 'air. Margaret, I fink 'er name was.'

'That's right,' Jessica cut in. 'That was the woman Mary fell in love wiv. She used ter swoon over 'er, didn't she?'

'She was the one who was tellin' us about those fings ter stop yer gettin' pregnant,' Carrie reminded them.

'Yeah, that's right. Contraceptives, she called 'em. She said men put 'em on their fings when they go wiv women,' Freda recalled. 'I remember 'er sayin' yer could buy 'em. I wish my ole man would. Mind yer, I don't s'pose 'e'd wear one anyway.'

'That's what that Margaret was sayin',' Carrie went on. 'She said a lot o' men fink it does 'em 'arm an' they won't wear 'em.'

'That Margaret 'ad a lot o' good ideas,' Jessica remarked. 'I remember 'er goin' on about what the government should be doin'. She said they should be settin' up special clinics jus' fer women an' then we'd be able ter find out 'ow ter stop gettin' pregnant.'

'I can't see that ever 'appenin',' Freda said. 'Not till we get the vote anyway. The only way we can stop gettin' pregnant now is not ter let the men 'ave their conjugals. That way we wouldn't get pregnant but there'd be fousands o' women walkin' about wiv black eyes.'

'I fink I'll stay single,' Carrie said, laughing.

'That won't stop yer gettin' pregnant,' Freda replied. 'I can vouch fer that. The only way is ter give up men altergevver an' do what Mary does - 'ave a woman fer a lover.'

The friends finally left the cafe and strolled through the rose gardens, walking in a slow circle and arriving back to where the path led down towards the gates. They gazed down at the afternoon sunlight reflecting on the quiet river below them, beyond the cla.s.sical white walls of the Royal Naval School. The air was fresh and Carrie breathed deeply as she stood with her two workmates on the brow of the hill. How different it was from the suffocating closeness of the little backstreets with their dilapidated houses and tenement blocks. They set off slowly, walking down the hill towards the faint sound of the early evening traffic, and Freda began coughing again.

In late summer Page Street's first war casualty was back home after being disabled in the Somme offensive. Billy Sullivan sat at his front door in the warm afternoon sunshine, his shoulders hunched from the shrapnel wound in his chest and his breathing laboured. Danny Tanner sat with him, saddened to see his idol looking so unwell, and doing his best to cheer him up.

'Yer'll soon be fit as a fiddle, Billy,' he said encouragingly. 'Pedlar Palmer'll 'ave ter watch out then. You'll beat 'im easy.'

'I've 'ad me last fight, Danny ole son,' Billy replied, grimacing. 'Yer need all yer wind in the ring. I can't even get up the stairs wivout puffin'.'

'Yer'll get better, don't worry,' Danny said quickly, trying to rea.s.sure him. 'The war won't last ferever an' then yer'll be back in that ring knockin' 'em all out. I can be yer second if yer like. We'll make a good team, you an' me.'

Billy smiled cynically. 'I wish now I 'adn't bin so b.l.o.o.d.y keen ter get in the war,' he muttered. 'It seemed like it was a big adventure we was goin' on. I remember when I signed on - the band was playin' an' all the blokes were laughin' an' jokin', sayin' what they was gonna do when they got out there. Everybody was clappin' an' cheerin' us, an' givin' us f.a.gs. It was the same all the way ter the recruitin' office. They're not laughin' now, none of them. There's no bands playin' an' n.o.body's rushin' ter join up. They've all got more b.l.o.o.d.y sense.'

Danny looked into his friend's faded blue eyes. 'Well, yer out of it now, Billy. Yer'll get fit again soon an' back in that ring, jus' wait an' see,' he coaxed.

Billy shook his head sadly. 'I'm never gonna put a pair o' gloves on again,' he said, his voice faltering. 'It's up ter you now, mate. Jus' remember what I told yer: keep those fists up an' stay light on yer feet. Do as the trainer tells yer an' train 'ard. Who knows? One day we might 'ave a national champion in Page Street after all.'

Danny's face became serious. 'Yer'll always be the champion as far as I'm concerned, Billy,' he said staunchly. 'As fer me, boxin's gonna 'ave ter wait till the war's over. I signed on terday.'

The autumn days were growing shorter, with chill winds heralding a cold winter as more troop trains rolled in to Waterloo Station, full of veterans from the long campaign. Many young men having experienced the horrors of trench warfare in winter-time were filled with dread at the possibility of another spell at the front in bitter weather. One young soldier who became too terrified to return was Percy Jones from Page Street. When his short leave was over he did not catch his allotted train. Instead he walked into the Kings Arms and got drunk. That night he slept like a baby. The next morning he got up and strolled down to the quayside and watched the ships being unloaded and the barges being brought upriver. Percy tried to forget the mud and blood of the battlefields and the comrades he had lost. As he gazed at the river, he remembered how carefree and happy his childhood had been. He sat for hours at the dockside, recalling the times he and his friends had climbed down into the barges in search of coconut husks. Then he took a long stroll to London Bridge and over the river to Billingsgate. Percy smiled as he walked the greasy wet cobbles and saw the last of the fish vans leaving. As a lad he had strolled through that market much earlier in the day, and often taken home haddock or mackerel or sometimes a large plaice, depending on what was available and how close to it the market policeman was. Next morning he would get up early and stroll through the market while it was busy, he promised himself.

That evening Percy Jones put on his threadbare suit, clumsily knotted his red silk scarf around his neck and pulled on his highly polished boots, giggling as he realised that he had them on the wrong feet. Maggie Jones was near to tears as she confronted her son, but he did not seem to understand why.

'If yer don't intend ter go back orf leave, why don't yer go an' stay wiv yer sister down in Surrey?' she suggested to him anxiously. 'They'll be comin' fer yer soon, Perce, an' they'll frogmarch yer out o' the street. They done it ter Mrs Wallis's boy. Gawd, I wish yer farvver was still alive. 'E'd know what ter do.'

Percy shrugged his shoulders as he walked out of the house. He wondered what his mother might mean and suddenly felt lonely and lost, a young lad whose friends had all gone away. Why would they come for him? he thought as he entered the Kings Arms and ordered a pint of ale.

The public bar was filled with smoke and an accordionist was standing beside the piano playing 'Bill Bailey, Won't You Please Come Home?' People were singing loudly and Alec Crossley was busy pulling pints.

Grace Crossley had spotted Percy Jones sitting alone and she nudged her husband. ''Ere, Alec, I've bin watchin' that Percy. I wonder if 'e's all right? 'E looks sort o' funny,' she remarked.

'What d'yer mean, funny?' he asked her. ''E looks all right ter me.'

Grace scratched her head thoughtfully. 'I'm sure 'e was due back on Thursday,' she recalled, 'at least that's what 'is muvver told me.'

'P'raps 'e's got an extension,' Alec suggested.

'I dunno,' Grace said. 'Maybe 'e's deserted. Mind yer, I wouldn't blame 'im if 'e 'as. Poor sod looks sh.e.l.l-shocked ter me.'

''Ow d'yer know what sh.e.l.l-shock looks like?' Alec laughed.

'I see Mrs Goodall's boy, an' that young Johnnie Ogden from Bacon Street. They was both sh.e.l.l-shocked,' Grace replied indignantly. 'Mrs Goodall told me 'erself. She told me about Johnnie Ogden too. Percy's got that same funny look on 'is face.'

'Percy's always 'ad a funny look on 'is face,' Alec chuckled. 'I fink it runs in the family. Maggie Jones always seems ter be vacant when yer see 'er in the street.'

The pub door suddenly opened and Fred Dougall came in. He stood looking around the bar for a few moments, and when he spotted the young man hurried over to him.

'The army's bangin' on yer door, Percy,' he whispered. 'There's a couple o' coppers wiv 'em an' there's a Black Maria outside yer 'ouse as well.'

'Fanks, Fred. I'll go out in a minute,' he said calmly.

Alec and Grace Crossley were gazing out through the windows and people were gathering in the street as Percy pulled his cap down over the top of his ears and strolled out of the Kings Arms. He shuffled calmly up to a military policeman sitting at the wheel of a car and gave him his special cross-eyed stare as he climbed in next to him. Percy had been doing that stare for years to make his friends laugh. He made one of his eyes turn so far inward that the pupil almost disappeared. The military policeman rounded on him angrily. 'Oi! Get out this motor, yer stupid git,' he growled.

Percy looked appealingly at the soldier. 'Gis a ride, mister,' he said.

'If yer don't get out o' this motor, I'll knock yer b.l.o.o.d.y 'ead orf yer shoulders,' the soldier snarled, leaning towards him threateningly.

'I only wanted a ride,' Percy moaned, climbing out of the vehicle.

Mrs Jones was standing at her front door, having suffered the indignity of seeing her whole house being searched. As she spotted her son standing beside the army car, she nearly fainted on her doorstep.

'We'll be back,' a policeman told her as he strode out of her house. 'If yer son does show up, tell 'im ter give 'imself up straight away. The longer 'e overstays 'is leave, the worse it's gonna be fer 'im when we do catch 'im.'

Percy stepped back to let the other military policeman get into the vehicle, giving him one of his best stares and saluting eagerly. When they had left he grinned widely at his mother and walked calmly back into the pub.

On a chill Sunday morning in September as the church bells were calling people to worship, Nora Flynn put on her hat and coat and smiled to herself. She always looked forward to the morning service at St James's Church and particularly enjoyed the sermons given by the new minister. He was a fiery orator and the sound of his deep, cultured voice resounding throughout the lofty stone building filled her with a sense of calm. It was there too that she met her old friends and chatted with them after the service as they walked together through the well-tended gardens.

Nora Flynn did not attend that morning service, however, for as she came down the stairs there was a loud knocking on the front door and she was confronted by an elderly army officer who brought the tragic news that Lieutenant Geoffrey Galloway had been killed on the Somme.

Chapter Thirty-two.

Throughout the cold winter months the curtains at number 22 Tyburn Square remained drawn. The draughty house had become almost like a mausoleum, with guarded voices speaking in whispers and footsteps sounding strangely loud in the silent rooms. Nora tried her best to comfort George in his grief and was saddened to see how the tragedy aged him. He had lost his upright posture and stooped as he trudged around, a shadow of his former self. Since the fateful Sunday in September, his eyes had grown more heavy-lidded and bleary with the amount of whisky he was drinking, and his hair had become totally grey. The running of the business had been left to Frank. The only time George left the house was late at night when he drove his trap through the gaslit streets down to the river, where he would sit watching the tide turn and the mists roll in.

When she had recovered from the first shock of Geoffrey's death Nora realised she had a painful duty to perform. Mary O'Reilly would have to be told. Nora's eyes filled with tears as she went to the sideboard drawer and took out the slip of paper from inside her family bible. She remembered Geoffrey joking with her when he gave her his lady-friend's address for safekeeping in case anything should happen to him. 'Put it in your bible, Nora,' he had said laughing. 'Father won't find it there, that's for sure.'

Geoffrey had told her that his lady-friend's husband was always out of the house during the day, so on Tuesday morning Nora boarded a tram to Rotherhithe and then walked through the little backstreets to Mary O'Reilly's home near the river. It was a three-storey house at the end of a narrow lane and Nora bit on her lip with dread as she climbed the four steps and knocked timidly on the front door.

As soon as Mary opened the door she recognised Nora and her mouth sagged opened. 'Oh no! Not Geoff?' she gasped.

Nora nodded slowly, reaching out her hand to clasp the young woman's arm. 'I'm so sorry. I had to come,' she said softly. 'I felt I 'ad ter tell yer. They told us last Sunday mornin'.'

Mary closed her eyes tightly and swayed backwards, and as Nora took her by the arms she rested her head against the housekeeper's shoulder. 'I was dreadin' this,' she sobbed. 'I knew it was gonna 'appen some day.'

Nora helped the young woman into her cluttered parlour and made her sit down in an armchair. Mary was shaking with shock and she leant against the edge of the chair, clutching a handkerchief tightly in her shaking hands.

Nora had noticed Mary's condition. She put a hand on her shoulder. 'Is it Geoffrey's?' she asked, knowing the answer already.

Mary nodded. 'I wrote an' told 'im. I've got 'is last letter in the drawer. Geoff was gonna tell 'is father about us an' the baby as soon as 'e got 'ome. Now 'e'll never see 'is child,' she sobbed.

Nora made the distraught young woman a cup of strong tea, and when she saw that Mary had composed herself sufficiently she asked her, 'Does yer 'usband know it's not 'is?'

Mary laughed bitterly. 'We've not slept tergevver fer months. I couldn't put off tellin' 'im an' as soon as I did 'e walked out. I couldn't blame 'im, Nora,' she sobbed. ''E was a good man despite everyfing, but 'e's got 'is pride. I expected 'im ter give me a good 'idin', or at least tell me what a s.l.u.t I was, but 'e didn't. 'E didn't say anyfing. 'E jus' left wivout a word. Oh Gawd! I jus' want ter die.'

Nora bent down and gripped Mary's hands in hers. 'Now listen ter me,' she said firmly. 'Yer got a duty ter look after yerself fer the baby's sake. Young Geoffrey would 'ave bin so proud, 'specially if it's a boy. Yer gotta go an' see Geoff's farvver soon as the baby's born. 'E'll be able ter provide fer both o' yer.'

Mary looked up at her visitor, her eyes red with crying. 'I won't take charity. I'll manage some'ow,' she said forcefully.

Nora patted the young woman's hand. 'Yer must tell George Galloway,' she urged her. 'Wait till the time's ripe an' go an' see 'im, Mary. Yer'll need all the 'elp yer can get. Bring Geoff's letter wiv yer, the ole man'll 'ave ter believe yer then.'

As Nora left the drab house in the lane by the river she felt the cold biting into her bones. She hoped the young woman would see sense and go to Galloway, but there had been something in her eyes that told Nora otherwise.