The Tea Rose Part 3

Looking at her, Fiona felt a sharp stab of self-consciousness at the drabness of her own woolen skirt, her white cotton blouse, the gray knitted shawl around her shoulders. She squashed the feeling immediately; she would not allow the likes of Millie Peterson to make her feel inferior.

"Is' e finding any new customers, then?" Joe asked, his eyes, and a dozen others, straying from Millie's face to her chest.

"A few. But it's not only customers he's after. He likes to come to the market to spy out new talent. He's always looking for lads with promise. I'm sure he'd be taken with you," she said, laying her hand on his forearm.

A jealous anger surged through Fiona. Sod good relations; Millie Peterson had just crossed the line. "You feeling ill, Millie?"

"Ill?" Millie asked, eyeing her like so much rubbish. "No, I'm fine." "Really? You look like you might fall over, leaning on Joe like that. Joe, why don't you get Millie a crate to sit on?"

"There's no need, thank you," Millie snapped. She removed her hand from Joe's arm.

"If you say so. Wouldn't want you to faint away. Maybe your jacket's too tight."

"Why, you little cow!" Millie cried, her cheeks turning red.

"Better a cow than a b.i.t.c.h."

"Ladies, that's no way to be' ave. Can't' ave a row in the market, now, can we?" Joe joked, trying to defuse the two girls, who were regarding each other like bristle-backed cats ready to strike.

"No, we can't," Millie sniffed. "That's gutter behavior. For guttersnipes.' "Watch who you call a guttersnipe. You came out of the same gutter, Millie," Fiona said, her voice low and hard. "Maybe you've forgotten that, but n.o.body else 'as."

Sensing defeat, Millie changed her tack. "I should go. It's plain I'm not wanted here."

"Aw, Millie," Joe said awkwardly. "Fiona didn't mean it."

"Yes, I did."

"It's all right," Millie said mournfully, turning her huge hazel eyes on Joe. ''I've got to find my father anyway. I'll see you about. Hopefully in better company. Ta-ra."

"Ta-ra, Millie," Joe said. "Give me regards to your dad."

as soon as Millie was out of earshot, Joe turned to Fiona. "Did you 'ave to do that? Did you 'ave to insult Tommy Peterson's daughter?"

"She' ad it coming. Thinks she can buy you with' er father's money. Like a sack of oranges."

"That's ridiculous and you know it." Fiona kicked at the ground. "You ought to watch that temper of yours. Are you going to be'ave like that when we 'ave our shop? Putting your nonsense before good business?"

Joe's words cut Fiona. He was right. She had behaved stupidly.

"Joe! 'Elp us out, will you?" Mr Bristow shouted.

"Right away, Dad" Joe shouted. "I've got to go, Fee. See if you can finish your marketing without causing any more trouble, all right? And don't be so jealous."

"Who's jealous? I'm not jealous, it's ... it's just that she's unbearable, that's all."

"You're jealous and you've no reason to be," he said, returning to his pitch.

''I'm not!" Fiona shouted, stamping her foot. She watched Joe take his place out in front of the barrow again. "Jealous," she huffed. "Why should I be jealous? She's only got pretty clothes and jewelry and big bubs and a pretty face and all the money in the world."

Why in the world should Joe fancy her, when she had so much less to offer him than Millie did? Millie, with her big important father and his big important money, could get Joe a shop just like that. Ten shops. He'd probably call the whole thing off any day now-their plans, their shop, everything-to take up with Millie. Especially now that she had behaved so badly and made him angry. Well, let him. She wouldn't be dumped like a sack of rotten spuds. She'd beat him to it. She'd tell him she liked Jimmy Shea, the publican's son, better. Tears p.r.i.c.ked behind her eyes. They were just about to spill over when her mother came up behind her.

"Was that Millie Peterson I just saw?" Kate asked, glancing at her daughter's face.

"Aye," Fiona said glumly.

"Lord, but she puts 'er goods on show, doesn't she? Overbearing sort of la.s.s."

Fiona brightened a little. "You think so, Mam?"

"Aye, I do. Come on, let's 'urry, I want to get 'ome ... " Her mother's voice trailed off as she moved toward another stall, and Fiona heard Joe's voice rising above the general din as he resumed his patter. He sounded livelier than ever. She turned to look at him.

He smiled at her and even though she was standing in the dark, Fiona felt as if the sun had just come out. "This smashing cabbage ... " he was saying, " ... usually I'd charge thruppence for a specimen of this quality, but tonight it's free! Free, that is, to the prettiest girl in the market. And there she is!" He lobbed the cabbage at her. She caught it. "Ah, ladies," he sighed, shaking his head.

"What can I say? She stole me cabbage and me 'eart, but if she won't 'ave me, I'll take you instead, me darling," he said, winking at a customer who was at least seventy and nearly toothless.

''I'll take you, too, laddie!" the old lady shouted back. "But keep your cabbage, I'd rather' ave yer cuc.u.mber!" The women at Bristows' screeched bawdy laughter and Joe's mother and father were once more wrapping produce as fast as they could.

The prettiest girl in the market! Fiona was beaming. How silly she'd been, getting so jealous over Millie. Joe was hers and hers alone. She waved good-bye to him and ran off to catch up with her mother. She felt happy and sure of herself again. Her emotions had boiled up, then spent themselves like a sea fret and were now forgotten.

Fiona's happiness would certainly have been dampened if she'd remained at the Bristows'

pitch a few seconds longer. For just as she left to follow her mother, Millie reappeared, her father in tow. She tugged on his sleeve and pointed at Joe, as if she were pointing at something in a shop window, something she meant to have. But Tommy Peterson didn't need to have his attention directed to Joe. His sharp eyes had already fastened upon him, noting with approval how quickly he moved his stock. For the first time that evening, Tommy smiled. How right his daughter was; here was a lad with promise.

Chapter Two.

"Five b.l.o.o.d.y pence an hour for slaving our guts out, lads," Paddy Finnegan said, slamming his gla.s.s on the bar. "No overtime pay. And now the b.a.s.t.a.r.d holds back our plus money."

"b.l.o.o.d.y Burton's got no right," said Shane Patterson, a man who worked with Paddy.

"Curran said if we got the boat unloaded by five o'clock tonight we'd get our plus. We was done by four. Then 'e says 'e ain't paying!"

" 'E can't do that," Matt Williams, another workmate, said.

"But he did," Paddy said, remembering the anger, the shouts and curse", when their foreman told them that their plus-a bonus paid for the quick unloading of cargo-was being withheld.

The pub door opened. All eyes fastened on it. The Lion was a dangerous place to be tonight.

Ben Tillet, the union organizer, was speaking, and every man in the place was jeopardizing his job by being here. The newcomer was Davey O'Neill, another docker from Oliver's. Paddy was surprised to see him. Davey had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the union. A young man, he already had three small children. It was all he could do to feed them and he was terrified of losing his job.

"Hey, Davey lad!" Paddy shouted, motioning him over.

Davey, a slim man with sandy hair and anxious eyes, greeted them all. "A pint for me, Maggie, and one for me mate," Paddy called to the barmaid, jostling the man on his right and knocking his gla.s.s. He apologized for the spilled beer and offered to buy him a new pint, but the man shook his head. "No harm done," he said.

The pints arrived, thick and foamy, and the barmaid took their price from a pile of coins on the bar. Davey protested, but Paddy waved him off. "What brings you here?" he asked. "T'ought you were steering clear."

"I was till today. Till Curran robbed us." Davey said. "Thought I'd come and 'ear what Tillet 'as to say. I'm not saying I'm joining, but I'll 'ear 'im out. Don't know who to believe. Union says it'll get us sixpence an hour, but Burton says 'e'll give us the sack for joining. If I lose me job I'm done for. Lizzie, me youngest, she's taken ill again. Weak lungs. I can't afford the medicine. Me wife does what she can, putting poultices on 'er, but it's not enough, the poor wee thing cries ... " Davey stopped talking; his jaw was working.

"You don't 'ave to explain, lad. We're all in the same boat," Paddy said. "Aye," Matt said.

"The one with the 'ole in it. You 'eard Curran at dinnertime."

Paddy remembered the lecture their foreman had given them earlier. "Think of your families, lads. Look at the risks you're taking," he'd said.

"It's them we are t'inking of," he'd shot back. "We'll never get anywhere if we don't take a stand. We know Burton's talking to banks, Curran. Looking for money to build up Burton Tea. You tell him we are Burton Tea, and if he wants to make improvements, he can start with our wages."

"Lads, lads," Curran had said. "Burton 'll never have his arm twisted by the likes of you. Give up this union stuff. You'll never win."

"I heard him, Davey," Paddy said now. "It's all talk. He's on a big push to expand the company. A mate down the tea auctions tells me he's t'inking of buying a whole b.l.o.o.d.y estate in India. Says he's talking about putting Burrton Tea on the stock exchange to pay for it all. Believe you me, if anyone's scared, it's him. Scared we'll go union and squeeze an extra penny out of him, so he t'reatens to sack us. But just t'ink for a minute ... what if we all joined? All the lads at the wharf, all the lads in Wapping? He couldn't fire us then. How would he replace us? All the men would be union, y'see, and no union man would take the job. That's why we've got to join."

"I don't know," Davey said. "Listening's one thing, joining's another." "All right, then," Paddy said, looking at each of his mates in turn. "This is what we'll do. We'll hear the man out. He's a docker. He knows what we're up against. If we don't like what he says, no harm done. If we do, then he's got himself four new members."

They all agreed. Shane said he'd look for a table; Matt and Davey followed him. Paddy ordered another pint. As the barmaid refilled his gla.s.s, he looked at his pocket watch. Seven-thirty.

The meeting was supposed to have started half an hour ago. Where was Tillet? He glanced around the pub, but didn't see anyone he thought might be the union leader. Then again, all he'd ever seen of him were drawings in newspapers, and you wouldn't recognize yourself from those.

"I think you've convinced your mates to join," said the man on his right, the one he'd jostled earlier. Paddy turned to him. He was a younger man, slight and clean-shaven, with an earnest expression. He wore the rough clothes of a docker. "Are you in charge here?"

Paddy laughed. "In charge? Sure, no one's in charge here. That's part of the problem.

Supposed to be organized labor. Here in Wapping, it's disorganized labor."

"You should be. I couldn't help but overhear. You're a good speaker. Persuasive. You must really believe in the union."

"Aye, that I do. You from round here?"

"From the south originally. Bristol."

"Well, if you worked in Wapping, you'd know what the union means to us. It's our only chance for decent wages, for fair treatment. Look at that old man there," he said, pointing to a far corner. "Spent his whole life unloading boats and then a crate fell on him. Cracked his head. Made him barmy. Foreman tossed him out like so much rubbish. See that one by the fireplace? Wrecked his back at the Morocco wharf. Couldn't work. Five kids. Didn't get one b.l.o.o.d.y penny in compensation. Kids were so hungry the wife finally went into the workhouse with them ... " Paddy fell silent for a seccond, overcome by emotion, his eyes bright with anger. "They work us hard. Ten-and twelve-hour days in all kinds of weather. They wouldn't work an animal like that, but they do it to men. And what've we got to show for it? f.u.c.k all."

"And the others? Do they feel like you do? Do they have the heart for the struggle?"

Paddy bristled. "They have heart, mate, plenty of it. It's just they've been beaten down so long, it might take them a little while to find it again. If you could see these men, what they endure ...

" His voice trailed off. "They have heart, all right," he finished softly.

"And do you - ?"

"Sure, but you ask an awful lot of questions," he cut in, suddenly suspicious. Dock owners paid good money for information on the union. "What's your name, then?"

"Tillet. Benjamin Tillet," the man answered, extending his hand. "Yours?"

Paddy's eyes widened. "Oh, Christ!" he spluttered. "Not the Ben Tillet?"

"I suppose so."

"You mean all this time I've been standing here preaching to the choir? Sorry, mate."

Tillet laughed heartily. "Sorry? What for? The union's my favorite topic. I like listening to you. You've got a lot to say and you say it well. I still didn't get your name."

"Finnegan. Paddy Finnegan."

"Listen, Paddy," Tillet said. ' I've got to get this meeting underway, but what you said earlier was right; we are disorganized down here. We need leaders on the local level. Men who can inspire their mates, keep their spirits up when the going gets tough. What do you say?"

"Who? Me?"

"Aye."

"I ... I don't know. I've never led anybody anywhere. Wouldn't know how."

"Yes, you would. You do," Tillet said. He drained his gla.s.s and put it on the bar. "Earlier, when your mates were unsure, you asked them to think about it. Now I'm asking you. You'll do that much, won't you?"

"Aye," Paddy said, dumbfounded.

"Good. I'll see you afterward." He moved off through the crowd.

Well, I'll be bowed, Paddy thought. He had to admit he was flattered and honoured that Tillet would ask him to lead the men. But being flattered was one thing, and actually taking over was another. Could he do it? Did he even want to?

"Brother dockers ... " It was Tillet. He warmed up by telling everyone about the withheld plus money at Oliver's, then moved on to the threatened wage cuts at the Cutler Street Tea Warehouse.

With a full head of steam up, he chronicled the poverty and deprivation of the dock worker's life, then lambasted the ones responsible. All talking had stopped. Men held their pints or put them down.

The quiet-spoken, earnest man had turned into a firebrand.

As Tillet railed against the enemy, Paddy's mind worked its way back to his request. What would he do? He looked around at the faces of the men who worked the docks, faces like anvils, hardened by the constant hammering life had given them. Usually it was porter or stout that erased the cares from those faces. Pint after pint. Washing away the bellowing foreman, the sad-eyed wife, the underfed children, the constant, aching knowledge that no matter how hard you worked, you'd only ever be a docker and there'd never be enough-enough coal in the bin, enough meat on the table.

But tonight something else had lit up these faces-hope. Tillet had made them see the possibility of winning.

Paddy thought about his family. He had a chance to fight for them now on the front lines. For more money, but for something bigger, too. For change, for a voice. Dockers had never had that before. If he turned down Tiller's request, how could he live with himself knowing he'd done less than his best for his children?

A cheer burst from the men; they were applauding. Paddy looked at Tillet, thundering at his audience, on fire, and saw that fire reflected in the scores of faces watching him. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. When Tillet came for his answer, he knew what he would say.

"Surrender now, Jack Duggan, for you see we're t'ree to one, Surrender in the Queen's high name for you're a plundering son..."

Fiona woke with a start to the sound of singing. It was coming from the back of the house.

She opened her eyes. The room was dark. Charlie and Seamie were asleep; she could hear them breathing. It's the middle of the night, she thought, her mind thick with sleep. Why's Da singing in the bog?

She sat up, groping blindly for the lamp and the box of Vestas as next to it. Her fingers were clumsy and it took a few sc.r.a.pes along the edge of the box before the match flared. The lamp's flame cast only a feeble light over the small room that served as a parlor during the day and as sleeping quarters for herself, Charlie, and Seamie at night. She drew back the makeshift curtain-an old sheet draped over a piece of twine-that separated her from her brothers, and headed for the kitchen.

" Jack drew two pistols from his belt and proudly waved them high... "

She heard the jakes door bang back on its hinges, and then the grand finale.