Gaslight In Page Street Part 35

'Yer was sayin' that lodger o' Florrie's 'elped Dad ter get the 'orses out,' Charlie said.

'Yeah, Joe Maitland,' Nellie replied. 'Florrie told me George Galloway gave 'er a letter fer 'im an' there was a five-pound note in it. Florrie said that when she gave 'im it 'e made 'er take the money an' 'e chucked the letter on the fire. She said she couldn't understand why 'e done it. Florrie told me 'e's a bit of a mystery. 'E's got no time fer Galloway an' 'e was really angry when 'e got that letter. P'raps 'e's got good reason ter be the way 'e is.'

'Is 'e from round 'ere?' asked Charlie.

'No, I don't fink so. Florrie reckons 'e comes from over the water,' Nellie told him. ''E's 'ad a few letters wiv a Stepney postmark an' a few from Poplar. She can't get much out of 'im, but yer know 'ow shrewd Florrie is. One day she'll get ter the bottom of it.'

'What does 'e do fer a livin'?'

'There again, it's a mystery,' Nellie said. 'Florrie said 'e goes out in the mornin' an' don't come in till six or seven. She reckons 'e's got a business o' some sort. Always got a few bob in 'is pocket 'e 'as, an' now an' again 'e treats 'er on top of 'is lodgin' money. Very nice bloke by all accounts.'

Charlie spread out his legs and yawned. 'I'm ready fer an early night,' he sighed.

'Yer'd better use the over bedroom,' Nellie told him. 'Yer'll 'ave ter share the bed wiv Danny when 'e comes 'ome. Carrie can use the chair-bed in this room. It ain't very nice but we can't do nuffing else wiv only two bedrooms.'

'Well, I'll be goin' back when this is 'ealed,' Charlie said, rubbing his chest.

'Yer mean they ain't gonna discharge yer?' his mother asked in a shocked voice.

'Yer need ter be a little bit worse off than me ter get a discharge,' he laughed. 'It's all right though, I won't be goin' back ter France. They told me I'm gonna be made up ter sergeant an' be posted ter one o' the trainin' camps. It'll suit me till the war's over.'

Nellie felt guilty for her feeling of relief at the news. She had been expecting Charlie to be discharged and then take up with Galloway's daughter. At least now he wouldn't be able to see the girl. Maybe it would all come to nothing and the girl would find another young man, she prayed.

Nora Flynn was deep in thought as she prepared the table for the evening meal. Since Josephine had the confrontation with her father she had become withdrawn and unhappy. She was rarely in the house now, and the evening meal had become a quiet and strained affair. George ate his food in silence, and Nora would sit opposite him, trying to make conversation and draw him out of his moodiness, but it always proved impossible. She had come to realise that she was just wasting her time. The large gloomy house was becoming like a mausoleum now that Josephine's infectious laughter could no longer be heard and Nora had the urge to throw open all the windows and all the doors and tear down the musty drapes. The place needed sunlight, young spirits, laughter and noise, but there was just her and George now, an ageing man, bitter and cynical, and his middle-aged housekeeper. Why should I stay with him? she asked herself. There was nothing to keep her here apart from Josephine, and it seemed very likely that she would soon leave.

The evening meal pa.s.sed as usual with George hardly speaking. As Nora pushed back her plate she looked hard at him across the table. This had gone on long enough, she decided. She had to try to make him see the unhappiness he was causing his daughter, and her too. He would have to listen to her, and if he refused then she would leave the house and let him fend fer himself.

George had become aware of her looking at him and leaned back in his chair and stared back. 'What's wrong?' he asked testily.

'I was just finkin' 'ow quiet the 'ouse is wivout Josie,' Nora remarked, looking down at her teacup.

'Well, if she's decided she don't like our company, there's not a lot we can do about it, is there?' he said sarcastically.

'If yer 'adn't bin so 'ard on the gel she'd be sittin' 'ere wiv us now,' Nora rebuked him.

George sighed irritably as he rolled a cigar between his thick fingers. 'Look, Nora, this is a family matter,' he said sharply. 'If I choose to criticise the young men my daughter a.s.sociates wiv, I'll do so. It's fer 'er benefit. If I didn't care about 'er welfare I'd let 'er walk out wiv any ole Tom, d.i.c.k or 'Arry. It's not fer you ter say what I should or shouldn't do.'

Nora pursed her lips in anger and took a deep breath. 'Now you jus' listen ter me fer a minute,' she began in a cool voice. 'Yer asked me ter be yer 'ousekeeper when Martha died, an' ever since I've looked after yer children, especially Josie. I fink I've a right ter let yer know 'ow I feel about the way yer treatin' the gel. If I was an outsider I'd say yer was right, but I'm not an outsider, George. Yer've taken me inter the family an' I've played me part. I've kept a good clean 'ouse. Yer food's always bin on the table ready an' I've bin there when the children needed me. I was there too when yer needed comfortin', but it seems ter me yer've used me the way yer use everybody. Well, I'm gonna tell yer this, George - yer've got no compa.s.sion or feelin' in yer soul. Yer an 'ard, inconsiderate man, especially where yer daughter's concerned. Yer jus' can't see the un'appiness yer've brought that child. She's a lovely gel, an' yer destroyin' 'er. Don't try ter run 'er life fer 'er. Let 'er make 'er own choice in young men. After all, she's a grown woman now, not a kid.'

Galloway had sat in silence while Nora berated him, his face set firm and his dark, moody eyes never leaving her face. As soon as she stopped for breath, he leaned forward over the table. 'Now listen ter me, woman,' he said in a low husky voice. 'Yer say I'm inconsiderate where Josie's concerned. Well, I'll tell yer this-I love that child even though I 'aven't always shown it. It's there inside me,' he said, tapping his chest. 'There's plenty o' young men around 'ere wivout 'er takin' up wiv the Tanner lad. I'm not gonna let 'er ruin 'er life an' I've ferbidden 'er ter see 'im. On that score I won't be swayed, whatever yer say.'

'I can't understand what yer've got against the lad,' Nora persisted, shaking her head. ''Is farvver's worked fer yer fer years. Josie's in love wiv the lad, she's told me often enough.'

'Love?' George said, his face flushing as he clenched his fists on the table. He seemed to pause for a moment, then he stared hard at Nora and grimaced. 'All right, yer won't be satisfied until yer know the trufe, so I'm gonna tell yer. P'raps then yer'll understand.'

The light from the glowing coals flickered on the high ceiling and around the walls and lit up the old framed prints as George Galloway spoke slowly and deliberately. His housekeeper sat silently throughout, and when he finally slumped back in his chair Nora stood up and left the room without saying a word.

During the bitter cold winter of 1918 there was little news from the Western Front, and at the beginning of February the morning newspapers were able to report on the front page that Sammy Jackson's sentence had been commuted to life imprisonment. In the early spring, however, large headlines told of a new German offensive on the Western Front and once again the Red Cross trains were returning thousands of casualties. In March, Corporal Charles Tanner was pa.s.sed fully fit and posted to a training unit on the Isle of Sheppey with the rank of sergeant. Private Danny Tanner was one of the few survivors of his regiment, which had borne the brunt of the new offensive, and along with the others he was sent to a rest camp behind the lines.

Back in Bermondsey the delayed delivery of the first of Galloway's lorries took place in March and people watched from their front doors as the vehicles chugged noisily down Page Street and drove into the yard. Another lorry arrived at the Galloway yard the same day and left carrying the two ma.s.sive Clydesdales. George Galloway watched the loading of the animals with an impa.s.sive face, and then he walked back into the office to look at the plans of the proposed new site which Frank had spread out on the desk. The street folk watched the comings and goings with sadness. The horses clopping out of the yard each morning and returning in the evening with their heads held low had been a way of life for the little community; now they would have to get used to the sound of noisy engines and the noxious smell of petrol fumes.

Florrie Axford had been among the most vociferous in the past, protesting about the dangerous way in which some of the carmen drove their carts along the turning. Now she shook her head as she stood at her front door, chatting to Maisie and Aggie. 'I dunno what next,' she groaned. 'They should never allow lorries down 'ere. The turnin's too narrer. Somebody's gonna get killed wiv one o' them lorries, mark my words.'

'Gawd knows what Will Tanner will make of it,' Maisie remarked. 'I reckon 'e'll be glad 'e's done wiv it all.'

Aggie was pinching her chin between thumb and forefinger. 'I dunno so much,' she said. 'I saw Nell down the market the ovver day. She looked really miserable. She's got one o' them back flats an' 'er bedroom is right over the dustbins. She said the stink's makin' 'er feel really ill. She was worried about 'er 'usband as well. She said since Will's bin doin' that night.w.a.tchman's job, 'e's a changed man. She said 'e's got so moody.'

'Well, I reckon it's a b.l.o.o.d.y shame the way that ole b.a.s.t.a.r.d Galloway treated 'im,' Florrie declared. ''E won't get anuvver bloke like Will Tanner.'

'It seems strange not seein' Nell standin' at her door,' Aggie said.

'What's the new people like?' Maisie asked.

Florrie pulled a face as she took out her snuff-box. 'I ain't seen 'im, but she looks a miserable cow. She was cleanin' 'er winders the ovver day an' when she sees me she turned 'er 'ead. Sod yer then, I thought ter meself.'

Aggie looked along the turning and shook her head sadly. 'We'll never be able ter keep our winders clean now, not with all that smoke 'angin' about,' she said.

Florrie smiled. 'Never mind, Aggie. 'Ere, cheer yerself up. 'Ave a pinch o' snuff.'

On a balmy Sat.u.r.day morning early in April a pleasure boat left Greenwich Pier bound for Southend. Aboard were Red Cross nurses and doctors taking a well-earned break. As the craft steamed out on the tide, one of the doctors was playing a piano accordion. The pleasure boat chugged downriver while Josephine sat quietly re-reading the letter she had received from Charlie just two days before. She felt out of place among the noise and merriment, and when a young doctor pulled her up to dance she had to force a smile. The music sounded tuneless to her and her dancing partner's cheerful asides grated on her troubled mind and seemed meaningless. Above the clamour of merrymaking she could hear her father's voice, and all she could think of as she looked over the young man's shoulder were the boldly written words of Charlie's letter.

The music ceased while the revellers took refreshments and Josephine climbed the steep rungs to the upper deck. It was quieter here, she thought as she looked out at the widening estuary and the distant banks. She had to think clearly. Charlie had asked her to marry him and now she had to make a clear, final decision before she let herself touch her first drink. There would be time enough later to blot out the anguish and heartache that seemed to be tearing her apart.

For a while she stared out across the river, feeling the strong breeze on her face and listening to the steady chugging of the engines below. She watched the screaming seagulls as they hovered and swooped above her and dived towards the swirling rushing waters of the river. It was all an obscene, swirling madness, she said to herself as she leaned against the guard-rail. Once more she took the letter out and read it, then she folded it carefully and returned it to her handbag before she went down to join the revellers.

George Galloway sat alone in his front room, a gla.s.s of Scotch whisky at his elbow and a large sheet of paper spread out on the floor beside him. The plan depicted a group of adjoining riverside properties headed 'Felstead Estates', and as George studied it he fingered the medallion hanging from his watch chain. Frank had been optimistic about the purchase, he recalled. There were two old houses which had become derelict and a small yard leased by an engineering firm which was heavily in debt to the bank. The corner property, a working men's cafe, would be the only one to worry about, Frank had said. The lease was running out very soon and it was vital that the freehold was obtained beforehand. Planning permission would be no problem, he had been a.s.sured. New local transport concerns were being encouraged by the borough council to cope with the rising demands of trade, and a few palms had been greased as well. Felstead Estates were keen to sell the land, Frank had told him. They were in the process of raising money from their less profitable sites to finance a deal to buy property in the West End. The whole riverside site could easily be razed to the ground and replaced with a garage for a dozen lorries and yard storage s.p.a.ce. Frank had been quick to point out that two sides of the site ab.u.t.ted on warehouses which would mean only two sides to fence and secure. It looked very promising, George thought as he sipped his drink.

The rat-tat on the front door roused him from his thoughts and he heard Nora's footsteps on the stairs as she hurried down to answer the knock. Her face was pale and anxious as she led the two police officers into the room. They took off their helmets as George got up unsteadily from his chair.

'Mr George Galloway?' one of the policemen asked.

'What's wrong?' he asked, feeling dizzy as he straightened up.

'I'm afraid we've got some bad news, sir. It concerns your daughter.'

'What's 'appened?' he blurted out.

'I'm very sorry to have to tell you that your daughter Josephine was lost overboard from the "Greenwich Belle",' the officer said in a low voice.

George collapsed into his chair, his head in his hands and his whole body convulsed with sobs. Nora stood aghast with her hand up to her face and stared white-faced at the policeman. ''Ow? Where?' she croaked.

'The last time she was seen was about eight o'clock this evening,' the officer replied. 'We've taken statements from the pa.s.sengers and those who knew her said she'd been drinking heavily. It would appear that she fell from the upper deck. That's where she was seen last. According to the skipper the boat would have been approaching Galleons Reach on the return journey at about that time. The river police are searching the whole stretch of water but they've informed us that it might be some time before they recover the body. There are quite a few locks and dock entrances leading off Galleons Reach you see. I'm very sorry.'

Nora showed the two police officers out, her body suddenly becoming ice cold. Poor Josephine, she thought over and over again. And the poor lad.

She walked back to the door of the front room and stood there for a few moments without saying anything, then she turned and climbed the stairs to her room.

Chapter Thirty-nine.

On the last Sat.u.r.day morning in April Carrie Tanner was married to Fred Bradley in St James's Church, Bermondsey. She wore a full-length white satin dress, and the three young bridesmaids who walked behind her were dressed in a beautiful coral pink. Jessica's two children were full of smiles in their dresses and beamed at the camera but Freda's three-year-old daughter needed a lot of coaxing to pose, finally giving the photographer a gap-toothed grin that made everyone smile. William Tanner gave his daughter away. He was looking smart in his grey pin-striped suit and starched collar with a wide-knotted silver tie. Nellie shed a few tears as she watched him proudly escort Carrie down the aisle and noticed how grey his hair had become. He seemed to have lost the sharp bearing she had so admired. Although he still walked upright, his shoulders drooped. Charlie had been given a weekend pa.s.s to attend the wedding and he sat at the back of the church looking wan and hollow-eyed.

All the neighbours were there. Florrie had put on her best hat and coat and before she left had slipped her ever-present silver snuff-box into her pocket. Perhaps she might be able to take a pinch to steady her nerves, she thought. Weddings always made her feel nervous, although it was many years since she had attended one. Maisie was there too, resplendent in a pink coat and wide white hat. She sat with Florrie and constantly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Aggie sat in the pew behind, along with Maggie Jones, Ida Bromsgrove and Grace Crossley from the Kings Arms.

Sadie sat at the back of the church, feeling decidedly out of place in a Church of England establishment. With her was Maudie who was used to singing hymns. Her voice made Sadie wince as it lifted above everyone else's.

At the giving and taking of the vows, Sadie nudged Maudie. 'Don't 'e look old ter 'er?' she remarked.

Maudie never liked to chatter in church. 'Umm,' she said in a soft voice.

'She looks lovely though,' Sadie went on.

'Umm.'

'Yer Catholic services are much longer than this, yer know.'

'Umm.'

'The vicar's stutterin' a bit. I reckon 'e's bin at the communion wine,' Sadie continued.

'Umm.'

Sadie looked at Maudie's erect head. 'Is that all yer can say, "Umm"?' she complained in a loud voice, just as the vicar paused for the handing over of the ring. Everyone looked round.

Maudie turned a bright red, and as soon as the newly-weds went out to the vestry for the signing she turned to Sadie. 'Yer shouldn't talk durin' the service,' she hissed. 'I didn't know where ter put me face.'

Sadie mumbled under her breath and amused herself by studying the people on the opposite side of the aisle.

The reception was held in the adjoining church hall and although Carrie mingled with the guests and accepted their good wishes with a smile, her happy day was marred by seeing her brother Charlie looking so sad and forlorn. She was worried too about her youngest brother Danny who was still out in France, and felt very sad that James was not there to joke and gently tease her as he probably would have done. Fred's constant attention helped ease her heavy-heartedness, and when it was time to leave the guests and catch the train for their week's honeymoon at Margate, Carrie hugged Charlie tightly.

William Tanner watched his daughter and her new husband leave the hall with mixed feelings. She was no longer the little girl he used to take with him to the stables and on those trips to the farm. She had grown into a beautiful woman and now she was married to an older man. Carrie had looked radiantly happy, but William sensed that his daughter had grabbed at marriage. Her decision had been sudden. There had been no courtship and no mention of Fred Bradley as a possible suitor. Her decision to marry him had come just after her father had lost his job at the yard and been forced to give up their family home. Would she have made the same decision if he were still working for Galloway? he wondered. Nellie had thought so. She had said that Carrie was being sensible in marrying a steady man who could provide for her and who would be less likely to weigh her down with a large family. Nellie had dismissed the age gap as being of little importance, and was quick to point out that there was a ten-year difference between their own ages. Perhaps she was right, thought William.

The women were gathering together in small groups and the men were beginning to congregate around the beer table. Not wanting to get involved in small talk, William strolled out of the hall and leaned against a stone column while he rolled a cigarette. As he searched his pockets for his matches he heard a rattle and turned to see Joe Maitland grinning at him and holding out his box of Swan Vestas. William smiled as he lit his cigarette and stepped down into the garden with Florrie's lodger falling into step beside him.

'I don't know many o' the blokes so I decided ter get a bit of air while they're all bunnyin',' Joe said, kicking at a stone. 'Florrie asked me ter come ter the weddin'. She said it was a chance ter get ter know some o' me neighbours.'

'Don't yer come from round 'ere?' William asked.

Joe shook his head. 'I was born in Stepney, as a matter o' fact. I've always lived there, up until I decided it was time ter push off. Fings change, an' so do people. Bermondsey seemed as good a place as any ter put down me suitcase. I'm quite 'appy bein' this side o' the water, although it's a mite different from Stepney.'

William caught a certain bitterness in the young man's voice and glanced at him. 'Did yer get in a bit o' trouble?' he said, and then quickly held up his hand. 'Sorry, I didn't mean ter pry.'

'It's a long story,' Joe told him.

'It usually is,' William laughed.

They strolled along the path in silence for a while, then suddenly Joe looked intently at the older man. 'What's yer feelin's towards Galloway?'

William shrugged his shoulders. 'If yer want me honest opinion, I've got no feelin's at all fer the man. Not after gettin' the push,' he replied.

Joe stuck his hands deep into his pockets. As they reached the wide iron gates, he turned to face William. ''Ave yer ever bin ter those fights they 'old at the local pubs?' he asked.

William shook his head. 'No. I don't care ter watch two blokes bashin' each ovver's brains out jus' so a few people can get rich bettin' on the outcome.'

Joe's face creased in a brief, appreciative smile. 'Florrie reckons yer a bloke ter be trusted, so I'm gonna put me cards on the table,' he said, looking William in the eye. 'But yer'll 'ave ter understan', Will, that what I'm gonna tell yer is between us alone. I've not even let on ter Florrie what I'm doin' this side o' the water, but I will in good time, 'cos I might need a few friends. As I said, it's a long story so I might as well start at the beginnin'.

'I come from a river family. Me ole man an' 'is farvver before 'im were lightermen. Patrick, me older bruvver, follered the tradition, but as fer me they decided I should get an education an' break the mould. It's an 'ard an' dangerous life bein' a lighterman as yer'll appreciate. Anyway, schoolin' an' me didn't get on all that well an' I left early ter work in Poplar Market. I used ter 'elp out on the stalls an' when I was eighteen I 'ad one o' me own. I used ter sell fruit an' veg an' I made a go of it. Then I got in wiv a dodgy crowd an' from then on it was shady deals an' lookin' over me shoulder all the time.

'I didn't take after me bruvver Patrick, 'e was as straight as a die. 'E was a big strappin' man who could 'andle 'imself in a fight. 'E used ter go ter the fairs an' 'ang around the boxin' booths. Patrick couldn't resist a challenge an' I've seen 'im give a good account of 'imself more than once. 'E won quite a few bob too. One or two o' the pubs in Stepney started these boxin' tournaments, jus' like yer've got over this side o' the water. 'Course, bruvver Patrick 'ad ter get involved an' 'e 'ad a few fights, winnin' 'em all wiv no trouble, I 'ave ter say.'

'Did 'e 'ave a manager?' William cut in.

'Only the ole man,' Joe replied. 'I used ter go along an' 'elp out but they didn't like me bein' there. I s'pose they was worried in case I got the bug. Anyway, Patrick built up quite a reputation. "The Battlin' Lighterman" 'e was known as. Then George Galloway came on the scene.'

'Galloway?' William said in surprise.

'Yeah, Galloway,' Joe said bitterly. ''E used ter travel all over the place ter see a fight, an' before long 'e was promotin' 'is own fighter.'

'Jake Mitch.e.l.l,' William said quickly.

Joe nodded. 'Or Gypsy Williams, as 'e used ter be known. Mitch.e.l.l was in 'is prime then an' 'e was matched wiv Patrick. There was a lot o' money staked on the outcome an' me bruvver was odds-on ter win. Anyway, while Patrick was gettin' ready ter go on an' me an' the ole man were fussin' around 'im, we was paid a visit by a couple o' villainous-lookin' blokes. They didn't waste no time tellin' us that eivver Patrick lost or else we'd be sorted out. The bribe money was put inter me farvver's 'and an' then they left. There was no way on earth that me bruvver was gonna chuck that fight an' that night 'e 'ad the best sc.r.a.p of 'is life. It was the last one 'e ever 'ad.

''E dropped Jake Mitch.e.l.l in the third round, an' then before I knew what was 'appenin' a crowd o' me farvver's pals grabbed me from the ringside an' bustled me out o' the pub. Me farvver knew there'd be trouble an' 'e wanted ter make sure I got 'ome in one piece. The villains was mob-'anded an' they caught up wiv Patrick an' me farvver as they was climbin' out o' the winder at the back o' the pub. Me farvver was done up bad an' 'e never worked again. As fer Patrick, 'e tried ter fight 'em off but they laid 'im out wiv an iron bar. It was the only way they was gonna stop 'im. 'E was taken ter 'ospital in a coma an' never recovered. A week later 'e was dead.'

William shook his head sadly. 'Was Galloway involved?' he asked.

Joe shrugged his shoulders. 'I dunno, but 'e 'ad a good few friends in Stepney,' he replied. 'One fing I do know - 'e tried ter blind Patrick. There was somefink on Mitch.e.l.l's gloves an' me bruvver was fightin' out o' one eye after the first round. Exactly a year after that fight me farvver died, I swear it was from a broken 'eart. 'E idolised Patrick.'

'What about yer muvver?' asked William.

'I never knew 'er. She died when I was very young,' Joe told him. 'What I'll never get over is the fact that I wasn't there ter 'elp Pat an' the ole man. What I did do though was ter go round an' sort out the publican. 'E swore 'e didn't 'ave anyfing ter do wiv it but I wasn't listenin'. I was done fer grievous bodily 'arm an' I got four years 'ard labour. When I got out o' the nick, I got tergevver wiv a few o' me farvver's ole pals an' one or two o' Patrick's best mates an' eventually we got the names o' four out o' the five villains be'ind me bruvver's killin'. Two of 'em are doin' long stretches, one died o' syphilis before they get 'old of 'im an' anovver one ended up in the river, compliments o' Patrick's mates. The fifth one was never named. We're still tryin' ter identify 'im. Me an' the rest o' the lads managed ter get the tournaments stopped, though. Names, locations and times was forwarded ter the police. It was then that I decided ter take a look at Galloway.'

'So yer fink 'e might be the last one yer lookin' for?' William asked.

'I'm not sure, but that's what I 'ope ter find out,' Joe replied. 'Galloway didn't show 'is face in Stepney after me bruvver was killed. I tried ter find out where 'e'd disappeared to but all the leads came ter nuffink. At that time I 'ad a stall in Roman Road an' I was buildin' up a nice business. Anyway, one day out o' the blue I suddenly got word that Jake Mitch.e.l.l was fightin' in Bermondsey an' I guessed that was where Galloway was. It didn't take me long ter find 'im. I knocked on a door in Page Street lookin' fer lodgin's an' the woman there sent me ter Florrie's 'ouse.'

'Didn't Galloway reco'nise yer when yer moved in the street?' William asked. ''E must 'ave seen yer about.'

'It's almost eight years ago since Patrick climbed in that ring wiv Jake Mitch.e.l.l,' Joe answered. 'I was jus' somebody who stood in Patrick's corner as far as 'e was concerned. I'd never 'ad anyfink ter do wiv Galloway in any case.'

''E'd remember the name though, wouldn't 'e?' William said. ''E would 'ave read about yer gettin' put in prison, or at least somebody would 'ave told 'im.'