Billy nodded slowly, ‘Yer know, that was the way I saw it,’ he replied. ‘It was different wiv me an’ Annie though. She got the chance ter work at that ’ome and she’s still wiv the kids. I don’t fink she could bear ter be parted from ’em eivver. I know I miss’em all somefing terrible.’
Danny drained his glass and stood up. ‘Same again?’
Glasses refilled, the two sat in silence. Now in their middle years, the two old friends could sit together, comfortable and pensive, without the need to make undue conversation.
The beer dwindling, Danny looked across at his friend. ‘Let’s’ave a stroll down ter the gym,’ he suggested.
Billy nodded, and after they had drained their glasses the two left the pub and set off along the quiet Jamaica Road.
The evening was balmy, with birds chattering noisily in the tall plane trees that stood back from the road. Above them the evening sky was turning red and gold, and smells of spice and fruit drifted from the nearby wharves. Billy walked with his usual pronounced stoop, his shoulders rolling, while Danny walked upright, his head held high.
‘Yer know, I sometimes wonder why I bovver ter go in that pub again, after the poison-pen letter Annie got,’ Billy told his mate.
‘If yer’d stopped out o’ there, whoever sent it would ’ave beat yer,’ Danny replied.
Billy nodded. ‘Sometimes I look around at those familiar faces an’ find it ’ard ter fink that any of ’em could ’ave done such a fing,’ he said.
‘Well, somebody did,’ Danny replied. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it though. Yer’ll probably never get ter the bottom of it.’
They had reached Wilson Street and as they turned the corner they could see the red-brick building standing out against the evening light. They strolled up slowly, hands in pockets, and saw the civil defence sign by the front door. Next to it was a poster reminding people to carry their gas masks about with them and yet another poster warning against careless talk. The front entrance was shielded with sandbags, and a criss-cross of paper strips covered all the windows.
Billy sighed as he stared at the building. ‘I wonder what ole Farvver Murphy’s finkin’ about all this?’ he said.
Danny hunched his shoulders. ‘’E’s prob’ly lookin’ down an’ groanin’ at the blood stupidity of it all,’ he replied.
‘We ’ad some good times ’ere,’ Billy reminded him with a grin. ‘D’yer remember when we brought those two jack-the-lads back ’ere an’ duffed ’em up?’
Danny smiled at the memory. ‘We come near ter doin’ it all wrong that night, ole pal.’
Billy walked up to the front door and stood on the wide stone step, remembering the dream he had had, a dream nurtured and brought to fruition by the unsparing efforts of the much-loved old priest, Father Murphy. He turned to face Danny. ‘Remember the brick-stackin’ contest, an’ the look on Wally Walburton’s face when we offered ter buy ’im a pint afterwards?’ he asked.
‘’Ow could I ever ferget,’ Danny grinned.
Billy tried the locked front door and then walked back to the entrance that had once had an iron gate. ‘I’m finkin’ that by the time this war’s over, me an’ you’ll be too bloody old ter go back trainin’ the kids,’ he remarked.
Danny shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It can’t go on fer ever, Billy. C’mon, let’s get goin’. I’m on early shift termorrer.’
Dusk was settling over the Bermondsey backstreets as the two strolled back to Page Street.
‘Come in fer a bit o’ supper,’ Danny suggested.
Billy shook his head. ‘No, it’s all right,’ he replied.
Danny slipped his arm round his friend’s shoulders. ‘C’mon, mate. Iris told me not ter take no fer an answer.’
As they stepped inside the front door of the Tanner house, a lone figure shuffled out of the turning, heading for the solitude of the evening river, unable to understand why there were now no lights over the quays or shining from the high stone towers of the bridge that moved up and down.
During the first week in June a visitor called at the Bradley transport yard, introducing herself as Mrs Robins and saying that she would like to speak to the owner in private. Joe showed her into the office where Carrie was busy with the worksheets and left the two women together. A short time later Carrie came over to Joe as he was fixing tarpaulin to the roof of the newly erected vehicle shed and beckoned him down. Her face was set grimly and when Joe reached the foot of the ladder, he could see she was holding back tears.
‘That was Jamie’s muvver, Joe,’ she said quietly. ‘Jamie got back from Dunkirk yesterday. ’E’s bin wounded an’ ’e’s asked ter see me.’
‘Is ’e badly wounded?’
‘Bad enough. ’E’s lost a leg.’
‘Good Gawd,’ Joe groaned. ‘The poor little bleeder.’
‘I can visit this Sunday. Come wiv me, Joe. I need yer wiv me,’ Carrie said, gripping his arm.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘What ’ospital is ’e in?’
‘Woolwich Military. It’s afternoon visitin’.’
On a bright Sunday morning George Galloway decided he could manage the short walk to his favourite pub. He leaned heavily on his silver-tipped walking cane and when he reached the Saracen’s Head and stepped into the cosy saloon bar, he was greeted by his old friend John Hargreaves. The two found their favourite corner and sat together drinking large Scotches.
‘That Dunkirk turnout was a masterful piece of organisation,’ Hargreaves said. ‘At least we got most of our army back in one piece.’
George nodded. ‘My gran’son got back safely, fank Gawd,’ he replied. ‘I got word from ’is muvver yesterday.’
‘Will you be seeing him, George?’ the elderly solicitor asked.
‘Soon as it can be arranged.’
‘How’s the lad’s mother? She’s not very well I remember you saying.’
‘It’s consumption,’ George told him. ‘The woman’s neglected’erself over the years. She should ’ave come ter me before now.’
‘Pride, George, it’s all a question of pride,’ his friend remarked. ‘We all have our pride.’
‘Well, she’s payin’ the price now fer ’er stupid pride,’ George growled. ‘Still, the boy’s a strappin’ lad. A chip off the old block right enough. Yer can see it in the way ’e carries ’imself. Proud lad, ’e is. Like ’is farvver. Geoff cut a fair dash in ’is time. I’ll tell yer what, John, if I’m around I’ll make sure that lad gets the right advice about settin’ ’imself up in business when this lot’s over.’
‘That’s if the lad has the inclination.’
‘Inclination? ’Course ’e will,’ George stormed. ‘’E’s a Galloway.’
‘Well, there’s a war to be fought first,’ Hargreaves pointed out, ‘and by the way things are going it’ll be a long, hard struggle.’
George sipped his drink without saying anything. John Hargreaves is a bloody old fool, he thought. Always looking on the dark side.
‘How is the application for extra petrol going?’ the solicitor asked, breaking the silence.
George allowed himself a smile. ‘Pretty good,’ he replied. ‘The first rum consignment inter Bristol docks is due in next month. It looks like we’ve got a transportation licence, providin’ the railways don’t put their oar in.’
‘I wish you luck,’ Hargreaves said, holding up his glass. ‘By the by, the landlord tells me the Scotch is in short supply. Whose round is it?’
On that bright Sunday afternoon Carrie and Joe caught the train to Woolwich Dockyard and then hailed a cab to the large military hospital some distance away. She carried the bunch of flowers Joe had bought outside the railway station and they joined the many anxious civilians hurrying through the high gates and making their way to the brightly painted wards bedecked with flowers.
Carrie held onto Joe’s arm as they walked into a highceilinged ward on the first floor and scanned the beds. She spotted the white-faced lad lying back against the pillows. His bedclothes
were raised over a steel frame and there was a handgrip suspended just above his head. Carrie handed the flowers to a nurse hovering nearby and leaned over the bed. ‘’Ow’s our soldier boy?’ she asked, kissing his forehead.
Jamie looked embarrassed as he grasped the handgrip to pull himself up against the pillows. ‘I’m well, Mrs Maitland,’ he replied.
Joe leaned forward and took the lad’s hand in a firm grip. ‘We’re pleased ter see yer, Jamie,’ he said.
‘Did me mum tell yer?’ Jamie asked, nodding towards the mound of bedclothes.
His visitors both nodded and as Carrie sat down in the chair beside the bed, she touched the lad’s arm. ‘Is there much pain?’ she asked him.
Jamie shook his head. ‘I wanted ter see yer soon as possible, Mrs Maitland, because there’s somefink I want yer ter know,’ he said in a low voice.
Carrie gave him a smile of encouragement but Jamie dropped his eyes to the bedclothes and then glanced up at Joe. ‘I thought it’d be easy,’ he said falteringly, ‘but I don’t know ’ow ter start.’
Carrie could see his plain unease as his eyes flitted back and forth between her and Joe. She gave her husband a quick wink and turned to the ashen-faced young man. ‘Would it be easier if Joe waited outside?’ she asked.
Jamie nodded. ‘Would yer mind, Mr Maitland?’ he said.
Joe gave him a reassuring smile and walked away towards the corridor, Jamie’s eyes fixed on him until he reached the door of the ward. Finally the young man turned to Carrie, tears filling his eyes. ‘I done yer wrong, Mrs Maitland. I let yer down,’ he said in a low voice.
Carrie patted his arm reassuringly. ‘No yer didn’t, Jamie,’ she said. ‘Yer felt it was right ter go an’ do yer bit. I understood, so did Joe.’
Jamie shook his head slowly. ‘Yer don’t understand. It wasn’t that at all. I betrayed yer, betrayed the trust yer put in me, an’ after all the kindness yer showed me.’
Carrie’s face took on a puzzled look. ‘What is it, Jamie?’
‘It was me that cost yer the rum contract. Me,’ he groaned.
‘Go on,’ she urged him.
‘I gave Frank Galloway all the information he needed to undercut yer,’ Jamie told her, his eyes averted from Carrie’s gaze. ‘That’s why yer lost the contract.’
‘But why, Jamie? Why would yer do such a fing?’ Carrie asked, shocked at what he was saying.
‘It’s a long story,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t know where ter begin.’
‘At the beginnin’, Jamie. That’s where it usually starts,’ she said, looking at him kindly.
He took a deep breath, his eyes coming up to meet hers. ‘When yer was tryin’ ter get me a call-up exemption I was really pleased,’ he began. ‘I was worried about me mum an’ dad, me bein’ the breadwinner an’ all. Anyway, it wasn’t long before the snide remarks began. Who d’yer know ter get out o’ the fightin’? Are yer a pansy boy? Then there was the same sort o’ remarks made ter me parents. At first it didn’t worry me, but then it slowly got ter me. I started goin’ out ter the pub in the evenin’s. Jus’ fer a couple o’ drinks ter make me feel better. One night I met this young lady. She seemed very nice.’
‘Yer met ’er in the pub?’ Carrie cut in.
Jamie nodded his head slowly. ‘She came up an’ asked me fer change so she could make a phone call,’ he went on. ‘She told me ’er name was Gloria an’ we got talkin’ about work an’ fings. Then she asked a lot o’ questions about me, like where did I work an’ was I joinin’ up soon. I was flattered by ’er interest an’ I bought ’er a drink.’
Carrie’s forehead was creased in a frown but she said nothing and let him go on, aware that he was now trembling noticeably.
‘Gloria told me that she worked in an office an’ that it was a small world because ’er dad was Jack Simpson who used ter work fer yer,’ Jamie continued. ‘We ’ad a few more drinks an’ I was beginnin’ ter feel light-’eaded. I wasn’t used ter more than a couple. Anyway, I walked ’er ’ome an’ I suddenly felt really sick. Gloria let me stay at ’er place fer a while, an’ then we made arrangements ter see each ovver again. I got serious an’ wanted ter see ’er all the time, but she told me she ’ad ter take turns of lookin’ after ’er sister who was ill. One night we went back to Gloria’s flat an’ I stayed the night. I loved ’er, Mrs Maitland. I really loved ’er,’ Jamie said, his voice suddenly faltering.
Carrie gently gripped the young man’s arm. ‘Take yer time, Jamie,’ she said softly.
After a few seconds he continued, ‘I only made love wiv’er twice but then Gloria told me she was pregnant. I was naturally upset but I told ’er I’d do the right fing by ’er ’an marry’er. It was then that she told me she was already married an’ that ’er ’usband was away in the army. She said ’e was a violent man an’ that ’e’d kill the pair of us if ’e found out. She said she needed money ter get rid o’ the baby an’ that it was my responsibility.
‘I ’ad no money, Mrs Maitland. I didn’t know what ter do an’ I was worried sick. That was when I went an’ volunteered fer the army. Gloria told me I’d ’ave ter find the money or she’d write an’ tell ’er ’usband that I’d raped ’er an’ got ’er pregnant. Then she came up wiv this idea about gettin’ the money from Frank Galloway. She said that ’er farvver told ’er all about the bitterness between you an’ the Galloways, an’ ’ow yer got a lot o’ their contracts by undercuttin’ ’em. She asked me ter go an’ see Frank Galloway an’ tell ’im I’d sell ’im the information ’e needed ter do the same. She said it was only right, considerin’’e’d lost out by bein’ undercut. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t face the man, but Gloria said she’d go an’ see ’im for me. I jus’ needed time, Mrs Maitland, ’opin’ me call-up papers would arrive, so I put ’er off fer a week or two, but then she said ’er’usband was comin’ ’ome on leave soon an’ she’d ’ave ter tell’im that I’d raped ’er. I ’ad no choice, I ’ad ter give ’er the information.
‘So now yer know the ’ole story. I sold yer out, betrayed yer fer money. I wish now that that shell ’ad taken me ’ead off, instead o’ me leg. I really do.’
Carrie reached out to him and held his hands in hers. Her shock at his disclosures was tempered by the sight of him crying like a baby. Tears fell down his cheeks and onto his chin, and his eyes focused on hers appealingly. There was no anger in Carrie, only a sadness for the weak and immature young man, now so brutally maimed.
‘It’s all right, Jamie, it’s all right. Yer couldn’t ’ave done much else ter raise the money,’ she told him kindly. ‘There’s no ill feelin’.’
Jamie tried hard to compose himself and then he squeezed up the bedclothes in an angry fist. ‘I jus’ said that yer know the full story now, but yer don’t, Mrs Maitland,’ he went on. ‘Gloria finished wiv me as soon as I gave ’er what she needed. I saw ’er wiv Frank Galloway in a pub the night before I went inter the army. She an’ ’im looked very friendly. They set me up, Mrs Maitland. They planned the ’ole fing between ’em. She told me openly when I begged ’er ter come back ter me.’
Carrie felt a familiar cold anger rising in her chest. Once again a Galloway had cheated and manipulated to get what he wanted. It went much further than a normal business rivalry when the lives and the emotions of people were disregarded, used and then thrown away to gain a cheap advantage. It was because of such cynical callousness that Jamie was lying there now with one leg missing. There would be a price to pay, though. She would make sure of that, she told herself, remembering the vow she had made to herself in her early years, the vow that only recently she had tried to forget, that one day she would witness the end of the Galloways.
Joe held Carrie’s arm tightly as they left the hospital, having been told all that Jamie had said. He was quiet, angry at Frank Galloway’s dirty scheming and the damage it had caused to a lad he had grown fond of, and mindful of his wife’s simmering rage. He knew that whatever happened now, whatever pressures were brought to bear on Carrie, she wo
uld strive single-mindedly and relentlessly to outgrow and outlive the Galloway concern. He knew that in the past she had always had a good business sense and acted responsibly; his only fear was the one he had once heard voiced by Nellie, that hatred could sometimes eat into a person’s soul and destroy everything that was good.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Bermondsey backstreet folk saw out the long June days with a good deal of trepidation, fearing an invasion at any time, their conversations always returning to the expected invasion.
‘They’ve took all the signposts down,’ Ernest told Maudie.
‘What difference does that make?’ she asked him.
‘It’s ter fool the Germans if they arrive,’ he replied.
‘But the signposts are in English, not German,’ Maudie said.
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