Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  George downed his Scotch and pulled a face. ‘It seems ter me that the ’ole bloody lot don’t know their arse from their elbow,’ he growled. ‘We’ll jus’ ’ave ter wait an’ see.’

  Frank stared at his father as the old man toyed with the small gold medallion that hung from his watch-chain. ‘I’ve heard that Carrie Tanner has got rid of her horses and she’s getting two new lorries,’ he remarked.

  George snorted as he stared at the flickering flames of the dying fire. ‘I should fink she’s takin’ a chance, the way fings are,’ he said coldly.

  Frank had come to respect the business acumen of Will Tanner’s daughter even though he disliked her intensely. She would know what she was doing, and must have the necessary cartage contracts to warrant the purchase of two more lorries. They were not cheap by any means, he knew, and the sale of her horses would not have raised enough capital to buy the vehicles. ‘I don’t think we should underestimate her, Father,’ he remarked. ‘She’s caused us enough problems over the years and well we know it.’

  The old man leaned down and took up the poker. ‘I’m well aware of that,’ he grunted as he disturbed the low fire. ‘It’s up ter you ter see that she don’t give us any more problems. In fact I’d be much ’appier if I thought we could pinch a couple of ’er contracts when they come up fer renewal. See ’ow she copes then, wiv the bank breavin’ down ’er neck.’

  ‘That’s not going to be so easy,’ Frank told him. ‘Carrie’s got a good reputation. Besides, the businesses around this area are not likely to change their cartage contractor with the danger of war looming.’

  ‘Well, that’s your worry,’ George said, eyeing his son sharply. ‘You run our business now, get yer finkin’ cap on. Who knows, we might buy ’er out yet.’

  On the wintery Monday morning in nearby Page Street at eight thirty a car pulled up outside the gates of the derelict yard and three men got out, each carrying papers and clipboards. The eldest of the trio seemed to be in charge and he walked up to the rusting padlock and gave it a tug.

  ‘It’s locked. Yer can’t get in there,’ a voice called out to him.

  The men looked over and saw the buxom figure of Maisie Dougall standing on the corner clutching an empty shopping bag.

  The leader nodded and proceeded to push on the gate as though testing its strength.

  ‘I told yer it’s shut. Nobody’s there,’ Maisie informed them.

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ the man said testily.

  ‘It used ter be a transport yard, Galloway’s as a matter o’ fact. After that some ole rag sorters took it over. They’ve bin gorn fer some time too,’ Maisie went on.

  ‘Really,’ the man replied, turning his attention to the gates once more.

  ‘I dunno who’s got the key,’ Maisie said, trying to be helpful.

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘Well, yer gonna need the key ter get in, ain’t yer?’

  ‘I don’t need to get in, I just want to have a look,’ the man said with a condescending smirk in her direction.

  His two companions were grinning as the helpful lady from Page Street sauntered over.

  ‘ ’Ere. Yer not bin sent by Kate Karney, ’ave yer?’ Maisie asked.

  The two subordinates turned away to hide their amusement while the older man gave Maisie a scornful look. ‘Kate Karney?’ he almost shouted.

  ‘We ’eard that Kate Karney was gonna take this yard over fer a new music ’all,’ she explained, scratching the side of her head through a tattered hairnet. ‘Ter tell yer the trufe though, I fer one never believed it. Who the bleedin’ ’ell in their right minds would open a music ’all in this turnin’? They wouldn’t, would they?’ she asked.

  ‘Look, if you don’t mind, I’ve a lot to do. Thanks for your help,’ the man told her.

  ‘Well, yer can’t do much if yer can’t get in there,’ Maisie went on. ‘Why don’t yer send one o’ yer lads ter see if ole Galloway’s got the key? I should be careful though.’

  ‘Oh, and why’s that?’

  ‘I bet there’s rats in there big as our moggie.’

  The official turned to his two subordinates, who were by now wearing even bigger grins. ‘Let’s get started then,’ he said irritably, and in a lower voice he added, ‘I hope she’s not going to stand over us.’

  Maisie had other plans. She had glimpsed the wording on the paper pinned to the clipboard and felt that her old friend Florrie would be interested in her little discovery. She was planning to visit her anyway that morning.

  ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ she told the men.

  ‘Hurry up then,’ the leader growled under his breath.

  As soon as Maisie left, the men proceeded to take measurements, pavement to wall and across the gates; then they stood back and studied the site, scribbling on the clipboards and conferring with each other, unaware that they were being observed from behind more than one pair of lace curtains.

  It was bright but still cold, and the early morning frost had left the cobbled transport yard wet and slippery. The last of the horse-carts had left and Joe was busying himself in the end shed repairing the splintered side panel of the spare wagon. Across the yard Carrie was sitting in the office going over the work schedules with Jamie Robins, her clerk and book-keeper.

  Jamie was a quiet, slim young man who, having once worked for George Galloway, enjoyed the more congenial working atmosphere at Bradley’s Cartage Contractors. Carrie had been lucky to find Jamie, for not only was he a sensible, reliable clerk and book-keeper, he was a mine of information. He had been able to give his new employer a good deal of advice on contracts and charges, as well as having contacts with many of the local firms’ transport and dispatch managers. He had settled in very happily with the Bradley firm and was well thought of by the young owner.

  ‘What’ll ’appen ter the contracts if war breaks out, Mrs Bradley?’ he asked, looking up from the ledger.

  Carrie shook her head. ‘I really don’t know, Jamie,’ she replied. ‘As far as food goes, we’ll prob’ly carry on as normal. As fer the rum an’ leavver contracts, we might lose ’em. It all depends. Anyway, I’m not worryin’ over somefing which might never ’appen.’

  ‘I read in the Sunday paper that they might call up twenty-year-olds soon,’ Jamie informed her.

  ‘You’re twenty-four, aren’t yer?’ Carrie said.

  ‘Yes, but they’ll soon get round ter the older ones,’ Jamie replied, looking a trifle worried.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case I’ll ask fer a deferment for yer, Jamie. I can’t manage this business efficiently wivvout yer, an’ I’ll tell’em so too,’ Carrie told him forthrightly.

  Jamie’s face brightened. ‘That would be really good if yer could,’ he said. ‘Me mum’s worried about me gettin’ called up now me dad can’t work.’

  Carrie knew the problems his family faced since his father had been badly injured in a factory accident and she gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Yer might be able ter get off by claimin’ yer the sole breadwinner,’ she suggested.

  ‘I ’ope so,’ Jamie replied, dropping his head once more to the sea of figures in the ledger.

  Carrie left him to cope while she went across the yard to make their morning tea. She felt sorry for the young man. He was painfully shy and did not have a girl friend, and he had been quick to point out to her when she had asked him if he was courting that he could not think about marriage while things were difficult at home. Carrie knew, however, that it had not stopped Jamie being attracted to Rachel; she had seen the young man’s reaction whenever her daughter walked into the office. His eyes would light up and he would become flustered when she spoke to him. Rachel had mentioned Jamie’s shyness and how nervous he appeared when she helped him prepare the men’s wages every Thursday. Carrie hoped that the young man would gain in confidence, but she had to admit to herself that things did not augur well for him at the moment.

  Maisie Dougall had been to the market to get her groceries, and once b
ack in Page Street she pulled on the doorstring of number 10 and stepped into the dark passageway, wiping her feet carefully on the coconut mat as she called out.

  ‘I’m in ’ere,’ the old lady answered in a weak voice.

  Maisie walked into the tidy parlour and found Florrie huddled over a low fire with a black shawl wrapped round her, the tasselled ends resting in her lap. Her face looked ashen and she raised her head slowly. ‘What’s bin goin’ on over there then?’ she asked, nodding towards the window.

  Maisie knew very well that ill as Florrie was, any unusual happenings in the street would not go unnoticed by her, unless she was confined to her bed. ‘Did yer see those blokes pull up in that car this mornin’?’ she asked her.

  ‘I saw ’em from the winder,’ Florrie replied. ‘Who were they?’

  Maisie sat herself down in the vacant chair facing the old lady and put her shopping bag down by her side. ‘Well, I was just orf ter the market when I saw the motor draw up. Aye, aye, I ses ter meself, who’s this then? They looked a bit posh ter me an’ I see the old bloke tryin’ the padlock, so I asked ’em what they wanted.’

  ‘An’ what did they say?’ Florrie asked, taking her eyes from the fire.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t get much out of ’em,’ Maisie said, ‘but I saw what was written on the piece o’ paper this bloke was ’oldin’. “Bermon’sey Borough Council” it said.’

  ‘I reckon they’re gonna pull the place down,’ Florrie offered.

  Maisie shifted her position in the chair and folded her arms. ‘I was finkin’ it might be somefing ter do wiv what Maudie was sayin’. She ’eard at ’er muvvers’ meetin’ that Kate Karney was finkin’ o’ buyin’ it fer a music ’all.’

  Florrie pulled a face. ‘I’ve told yer not ter take any notice o’ that there Maudie Mycroft,’ she growled. ‘She’s as silly as a box o’ lights, an’ I fink that crowd she gets wiv lead ’er on, I do really.’

  Maisie had been watching the older lady while she was speaking and there seemed to be something different about her, something that was beginning to puzzle her. There had been a note of irritation in her voice as she sat there huddled up.

  That was it. Florrie had not reached for her usual pinch of snuff from her tin, and Maisie realised that the difference was apparent on the old lady’s face. The brown snuff mark was missing from around her nose. ‘’Ere, Flo, ain’t yer takin’ yer snuff?’ she asked her.

  Florrie shook her head slowly. ‘Ole Dr Baker come in yesterday,’ she said. ‘I was feelin’ bad an’ I knocked on the wall fer Mrs Wallis next door. ’Er boy went fer ’im. Anyway, ’e examined me an’ then ’e stood there scratchin’ ’is ’ead. “ ’Ow old are yer?” ’e asked. “Eighty next birthday,” I told ’im. “Well, it’s yer blood pressure,” ’e said. “Leave the snuff alone till yer feelin’ better. Snuff makes yer blood pressure go up.” “Gawd ’elp us, doctor, I’ve bin takin’ it fer years ter keep it down,” I told ’im.’E got a bit shirty but ’e give me some tonic an’ some pills fer me back, so I thought I’d better leave the snuff orf fer a few days.’

  ‘D’yer feel any better fer it?’ Maisie asked.

  Florrie shook her head. ‘I feel worser terday,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, why don’t yer try a pinch then?’ Maisie suggested.

  ‘As a matter o’ fact I was just out of it when I was taken bad,’ Florrie said.

  Maisie stood up and buttoned her coat. ‘I’ll run up the shop an’ get yer some. I’ll leave me bag ’ere.’

  As the good Samaritan hurried to the shop in Jamaica Road she wondered and worried about Florrie. She shouldn’t be on her own, Maisie thought. Not at her age. As far as she knew, Florrie had no relatives to look after her and, apart from Mrs Wallis, no one was on hand should she have another bad turn. Maybe she could come and live with me and Fred, Maisie considered. I’ll have a word with Fred soon as I get in.

  At eleven o’clock that Monday morning a removal van pulled up at the end of Page Street. Watched by one or two sad faces, the removal porters started to load up the possessions of Alec and Grace Crossley. Their work was soon done and the van drove off. A little later the publican and his wife emerged from the pub and stepped into a waiting taxi. The few bystanders shouted their good luck messages and waved to the sad couple. Grace dabbed at her eyes and Alec blew hard into a handkerchief as the cab slowly drew out into Jamaica Road.

  ‘I’m gonna miss their moanin’ an’ their miserable faces,’ Grace said quietly.

  Alec nodded. ‘When yer come ter think of it, they ain’t got much ter be ’appy about,’ he replied. ‘Still, never mind, luv. We’ll come back an’ see ’em all before long.’

  Grace stared out of the cab as it swung round the bend in the road and accelerated towards Tower Bridge. She felt in her heart that they would never return to the riverside borough and to the folk they had grown to love over the years.

  It was as the taxi turned towards the high twin towers of Tower Bridge that she saw the placard at a newspaper stand: ‘New German visit planned for Premier’.

  ‘Gawd ’elp us all,’ she said aloud.

  Word had spread about the Council officials’ visit to Page Street, and by the time Nellie Tanner was feeling fit enough to look up her old friends it was commonly accepted that work was to start soon on a new block of flats to replace the old houses.

  ‘They’re all comin’ down soon as the flats are ready,’ Maudie told Nellie when the ladies had gathered at Maisie’s house.

  ‘We’re all goin’ in there. There’s gonna be barfs an’ ’ot water,’ Maggie Jones added.

  Sadie Sullivan snorted. ‘I don’t see as ’ow any of us are gonna be able to afford the rents.’

  Maisie was ever the optimist. ‘I think they’ll charge us the same as we’re payin’ now. They know we can’t afford ter pay any extra.’

  Florrie was feeling better and had regained a little of her perspicacity since resuming her lifetime habit. ‘Well, I fink yer all barkin’ up the wrong tree,’ she told them. ‘If yer wanna know what I think, I’ll tell yer. They’re gonna build a great big air-raid shelter there, mark my words.’

  Maudie bit on her lip and Maisie chanced a grin. Sadie shook her head, but Florrie was undaunted by her friends’ reaction. ‘Don’t you lot ever read the papers?’ she went on. ‘I tell yer somefink, fer what it’s werf. I bet yer there’s a war before the year’s out, an’ I bet yer that shelter’s gonna be needed.’

  Maudie Mycroft was by now feeling more than a little sick with worry. ‘My Ernest said there’s not gonna be any war. ’E said we’ve signed a treaty wiv ’Itler an’ Mussolini.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is, your Ernest is talkin’ out of ’is arse,’ Florrie said quickly.

  Maudie turned her head away from Florrie’s icy stare and fiddled with the straps of her handbag while Maisie set about collecting the empty teacups.

  ‘I’ll give yer an ’and,’ Nellie offered as she followed. Maisie into the scullery, glad to stretch her legs.

  ‘I ’ad a word wiv my Fred about lettin’ Florrie live wiv us,’ Maisie told her as she put the kettle on, ‘but ’e wasn’t too keen on it. My Fred reckons the old lady would be more than we could manage. After all, we’re gettin’ on ourselves. I’m seventy-two this year an’ Fred’s nearly seventy-five. ’E reckons she wouldn’t come anyway, so what I’m gonna suggest is that we all take turns ter keep an eye on ’er. I can’t say anyfing while she’s’ere though.’

  Nellie nodded. ‘I fink it’s a good idea. After all, we’ve all bin friends fer more years than I care ter remember.’

  Maisie proceeded to swill the cups under the running tap and line them up on the draining board. ‘I know Florrie talks a lot o’ sense at times but I fink she’s got it wrong about the yard bein’ turned into a shelter,’ she remarked.

  ‘Well, I fink Sadie’s right about one fing,’ Nellie said. ‘I reckon that if they build flats there we won’t be able to afford the rents.’

  Maisie look
ed a little downcast as she spooned tea into the large teapot and Nellie decided to change the subject. ‘My Carrie’s gel ’as got ’erself a young man,’ she said. ‘Nice lad, ’e is. Ever so polite. ’E’s got a good job too, so Carrie told me.’E works in a shippin’ office in the City.’

  ‘ ’Ow old is Rachel?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘She’ll be nineteen soon,’ Nellie replied. ‘She’s a good gel. There’s not many who’d ’ave done what she done when my Will was ill. She ’elped Carrie an’ me no end. Proper little nurse she was. It was ’er who found Joe when ’e was on the piss an’ run orf.’