Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane

by Harry Bowling

  Carrie gave him a blinding look and stormed out of the room. It was useless to argue with him while he was in that mood, she told herself. Best to ignore him and let him come around in his own time. He would soon realise he had been acting stupidly and feel sorry for his bad temper. Better though that he simmered for a while, Carrie thought as she stirred the greens and tested the potatoes with a fork. The baby had been very demanding lately, and after trying to divide herself between the shop and the child she felt drained of energy. The thought of her husband fumbling around in bed and urgently attempting to rouse her left her feeling suddenly depressed. It had nothing to do with Tommy’s visit that morning, she tried to convince herself. She had got over their love affair before she agreed to marry Fred, although the young man’s sudden appearance had stirred a few very pleasant memories for her.

  The baby was crying and Carrie sighed resignedly as she quickly replaced the lid of the potato pot and hurried into the back room.

  Down in the dark and foggy street a figure stood waiting beneath a lighted gas lamp. The young, broad-shouldered man had the collar of his tattered grey overcoat pulled up around his ears and his cap was drawn down over his forehead. He tightened the red scarf around his neck and blew on his hands, stamping his cold feet on the hard wet cobblestones. The man’s pale blue eyes peered into the fog and his ears strained to catch the sound of approaching footsteps. He had waited for over ten minutes and decided that he would give his friend another five minutes before making off home. It had been a hard day and the river could be a severe taskmaster at times. He had moored three laden barges in position midstream and as the tide turned and the fog swept upriver he had finally managed to bring the last of them into its berth below Chamber’s Wharf. It had been a long, tiring business and his hands were sore and chafed from the ropes. He should have arranged to meet his friend Billy in the pub instead of in the cold street by the river, but Billy had insisted.

  Danny Tanner took out his silver pocket watch and looked at it, an expression of annoyance on his wide, handsome face. Just then he heard footsteps approaching and a figure loomed out of the fog in front of him. The young man walked with a shuffle, his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed deeply into his coat pockets.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said in a husky voice, his grinning face belying his sincerity. ‘I got ’eld up wiv one o’ the geezers in the Kings Arms. ’E give me an ear’ole bashin’ an’ I ’ad ter listen, didn’t I? The poor ole bleeder’s one of us. ’E got a Blighty ticket early on an’ ’e ain’t bin right since. Talks a lot o’ nonsense at times, but what can yer do?’

  Danny Tanner shook his head in resignation. He knew Billy Sullivan was never going to change. Always the soft touch, and always so unreliable. He put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and grinned widely as they started off.

  ‘I was about ter give up on yer. I knew we should ’ave met in the pub,’ he said lightly.

  Billy Sullivan stopped in his tracks and turned suddenly to face his friend, his face serious. ‘Look, pal, I wanted us ter meet ’ere. I’ve got somefing ter show yer,’ he said, a note of excitement in his gruff voice. With a grand gesture of his arm, he announced, ‘Take a look at that.’

  ‘What the bloody ’ell are yer talkin’ about?’ Danny replied, looking at what Billy was pointing to. ‘All I can see is a bloody empty yard wiv a shed in it. What’s so excitin’ about lookin’ at a poxy empty yard on a night that’s fair set ter freeze the cobblers orf a brass monkey?’

  Billy hunched his shoulders and did a quick shuffle. ‘Wasn’t I the best prospect Bermondsey ’ad for a long time before I got me wound?’ he asked. ‘Wasn’t I the only bloke who could ’ave give ole Palmer a run fer ’is money? I would ’ave took that title, Danny,’ he said passionately, his voice almost breaking with a note of despair.

  Danny nodded and slipped his arm around Billy’s hunched shoulders once more. ‘I know yer could, mate, but what’s that got ter do wiv what we’re lookin’ at right now?’

  Billy pulled away from his friend’s arm and made towards the empty yard. ‘I made a few enquiries an’ it’s up fer rent,’ he called back. ‘It’s ideal.’

  ‘Ideal fer what, fer Gawdsake?’ Danny asked, feeling perplexed.

  Billy Sullivan suddenly shaped up to his friend, his clenched fists pawing at the air and his shoulders moving from side to side. ‘A gym, that’s what,’ he said triumphantly. ‘A bleedin’ gymnasium wiv a ring an’ a punch bag, an’ lockers, an’ a washin’ place, an’ . . .’

  ‘’Ang on a minute,’ Danny said quickly. ‘Where yer gonna get the money fer all this? If yer ever get the chance o’ rentin’ the place that is? It’ll take a small fortune ter build a gym on this bleedin’ dump.’

  There was a wide grin on Billy’s ring-scarred face. ‘Look ’ere, Mister Know-all,’ he said in a confident voice, ‘I’ve bin doin’ a lot o’ finkin’ an’ I’ve put meself about. Yer know that our ole boxin’ Club’s gone down the drain since those new geezers took over. They ain’t got a bleedin’ idea between the lot of ’em. The young lads at the club ain’t very ’appy, an’ accordin’ ter my information they’re all willin’ ter lend us an ’and ter knock up a timber buildin’. Farvver Murphy at the church ’as promised us some paint, an’ whitewash fer the ceilin’s, an’ one o’ the lads knows where ’e can get all the timber we need, no questions asked o’ course. All we need is the ready money ter lay down ter secure the site an’ the weekly rent. Jus’ fink of it, mate, me an’ you givin’ the lads a few lessons an’ organisin’ a few tournaments. We could make the place pay. It could be a bleedin’ goldmine.’

  Danny looked into the blazing grey eyes of his friend and felt a sudden urge to throw his arms around him. He had idolised the ex-boxer since they were young children together in Page Street. He had watched Billy Sullivan box at the club tournaments and progress to the professional ranks. He had truly been a contender for the middleweight title until the severe chest wound he sustained during the heavy fighting in France had cut short his promising career. Billy had come home a physical wreck and it was only when Danny himself took up boxing seriously that his friend regained some of his self-esteem by helping and instructing him. Billy had certainly been making some enquiries but he had been misinformed, Danny thought. His best friend was due for a bad let-down, and it was he who would have to spell it out for him.

  ‘Now look, mate, I fink it’s a great idea, but yer gotta face facts,’ he said kindly. ‘The place ain’t fer rent. This ole plot, those two derelict ’ouses next ter me sister’s dinin’ rooms an’ that yard’s up fer sale. Carrie told me. She said ’er an’ Fred only jus’ got in wiv their bid before that bastard Galloway bought the land fer ’is business. They scotched ’is little caper an’ what was left was too small fer a cartage business so ’e pulled out. I was dead pleased when she told me but yer see, pal, yer’ll ’ave ter ’ave anuvver fink. The idea’s a good one but yer can’t ’ave that place, that’s fer sure.’

  All the time Danny was talking Billy’s wide grin stayed fixed on his face. When his friend drew breath, Billy chuckled. ‘It jus’ shows yer, yer don’t know everyfink, do yer?’ he said quietly. ‘I know it’s foggy, but can yer see a “For Sale” notice on the gaff? O’course yer can’t. They took it down, that’s why. That site was up for sale but there was no takers. Farvver Murphy told my muvver so only the ovver day. ’E gets ter know all the business round this area. It’s all ter do wiv plans ter extend the wharves. Anyway, nuffink’s gonna ’appen fer a long while yet so the owners are lettin’ the place out fer rent. I can see it now,’ he went on, his eyes opening wide. ‘Billy Sullivan’s Gym. They’ll all come ’ere, Danny. Everybody’ll know about Billy Sullivan’s Gym, you jus’ wait.’

  Danny felt a wave of admiration for his friend and affectionately put an arm around his shoulders. ‘C’mon, mate, let’s go an’ ’ave a pint at the Waterman’s Inn. They’ve got a nice coke fire in the public bar.’

  The two young men walked
away from the flickering gas lamp in Cotton Lane, their heavy boots echoing on the wet cobbles.

  Chapter Two

  Carrie stood behind the counter of the dining rooms with her fair hair pulled up at the back of her head and held in place with a pair of large bone combs. She brushed aside a wisp of hair which had slipped down over her face and smiled placatingly at the florid-faced docker leaning forward over the tea-stained counter. ‘Two o’ toasted drippin’? Yeah, I’ve put yer order in, Joe. Give us a chance. Fred’s run orf ’is feet back there,’ she appealed to him.

  ‘Well, tell ’im ter get a move on, luv. I ain’t got all day, yer know,’ the docker protested. ‘We’re goin’ barmey at the wharf. Yer know what it’s like when we’re on bonus.’

  Carrie smiled and patted his huge gnarled hand. ‘Sit down, Joe, I’ll bring it to yer in a minute,’ she replied.

  ‘Oi, Carrie, where’s my ovver mug o’ tea?’ another docker called out impatiently.

  ‘Jus’ comin’.’

  ‘What’s that ole man o’ yours doin’ back there? Kippin’ is ’e?’

  ‘Gis anuvver drippin’ slice, will yer, luv.’

  ‘Fancy a night at the flicks, Carrie, luv?’ another voice called out.

  And so it went on. The glass-fronted doors of the dining rooms were constantly opening and shutting and letting in draughts of cold morning air with the busy comings and goings of workers and their loud, raucous banter. The large plate-glass window of the riverside cafe was steamed up and trickles of condensation ran down the yellow-painted walls. The linoleum flooring was muddied and the wooden bench-tables were stained with slops of food and drops of spilt tea and coffee. A steady stream of steam-laden air gushed out from the kitchen and Carrie frequently ran the back of her hand across her hot forehead as she struggled to cope with the customers’ demands. It was always the same when trade was booming at the local wharves, and as the convoys of horsecarts and lorries lined up along Cotton Lane so the cafe became even fuller.

  Carrie had managed to cope with the twofold demands of the business and motherhood by employing a young woman to look after Rachel during the busy days. Annie McCafferty was a very reliable person who had been recommended to Carrie by the local midwife. She was a shy, retiring girl who had been brought up in a convent school after being abandoned as a baby. A tramp had found her freezing and near to death on the doorstep of a gin palace near the Elephant and Castle and he had carried her to the local Catholic church. There was a crudely written note attached to the child giving her name and saying that the mother was an unmarried Irish girl who had been in service and was going back to Ireland. Annie was nursed back to full health by the kind nuns who adopted her and they were able to give her a good education. When the time came for Annie to leave the convent school she was recommended for training in child welfare. Now twenty-eight, one year younger than Carrie Bradley, the young Irish lady was still single and had no urgent desire to wed, although her pale beauty could turn many a young man’s head. She was demure and dark-haired with deep blue eyes, and her full lips were constantly set firmly, giving the impression of sternness, although she was far from stern when dealing with her charges. She had been denied the company of males during her early life and now found it difficult to talk to members of the opposite sex. She feared the roughness and the roguishness of men and was happy in her work.

  Annie led a quiet, uneventful life, living in rooms near the Southwark Park. The building, which was owned by the church, was made up of a dozen self-contained flats rented out to respectable young women who had gone through the children’s home and school of St Mary’s Convent in Bermondsey. Annie spent her weekends reading, going to church and having tea with other young women in like circumstances. She rarely went out alone, preferring to take her strolls in the company of one or two of her friends. The other women often talked about young men they knew, and one of them had been taking a young man back to her flat during the evenings. Such a practice was frowned on by the church, and instructions were given to the warden of the building that if any young woman allowed a man to stay overnight then she was to be reported to the Mother Superior. All the young women knew the consequences. Should they digress they would be asked to find other accommodation forthwith. Annie felt worried for the young woman who was flaunting the rules and regulations and taking such a risk. She had seen the young man leaving Mary Kelly’s rooms and slipping out of the building by the back way on more than one occasion. Other girls had seen him leaving too and Annie felt that it was only a matter of time before her friend was found out.

  The young Irish nurse was happy too to be employed by the Bradleys, for the baby’s mother was kind and considerate and her husband posed no threat. Fred Bradley stayed very much in the background and his soft, kind eyes helped to put her at ease.

  Annie came in at seven-thirty every weekday morning, bathed and fed the child and, weather permitting, took her for an outing in the large black perambulator. She left every day at two o’clock, after the morning rush was over and once the last of the hot midday meals had been served. It was then that Carrie took over, dividing her time between caring for her baby and attending to her customers. She had complete confidence in the young nurse, although she found it very difficult to penetrate her reserve. Carrie’s only problem was the other woman who worked in the dining rooms. Bessie Chandler helped Fred in the kitchen, and when business demanded or when Carrie went upstairs to tend Rachel she came out of the kitchen to help behind the counter. Bessie was a fiery character, a large plump woman with a shock of ginger hair, freckles and green eyes. She was talkative and forthright in her opinions, which she gave freely and often without the qualification for doing so. Bessie’s opinions on how babies should be cared for were given freely to Carrie and duly ignored by the young mother, who was aware that Bessie had never had children of her own. Annie McCafferty, however, with her training in caring for children, viewed the Bradleys’ large and vociferous helper as an ignorant, interfering busybody.

  It was Friday morning, cold and clear after the night rain, and Annie brought Rachel down the stairs and settled her in the pram which was kept in the passageway beside the kitchen. Bessie was busy rolling out pastry for the meat pies and she looked up at the young nurse. ‘Yer not intendin’ ter take the baby out in this weavver, are yer?’ she asked in an indignant tone of voice. ‘It’s bleedin’ freezin’ out there.’

  Annie’s lips puckered in irritation. ‘It’s cold, but as long as the baby’s well wrapped up it’ll do no harm. In fact, the air will do her good,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Do ’er good?’ Bessie snorted. ‘Give ’er pneumonia more like it.’

  Annie disregarded the remark and as she walked out of the side door pushing the baby carriage Bessie turned to her employer.

  ‘I shouldn’t let that young woman take too much on ’erself, Fred, if I was you,’ she said quickly. ‘Them sort ain’t got ’alf the sense they was born wiv.’

  Fred was busy cutting meat into small cubes and he ignored his helper’s comment.

  ‘I remember what ’appened ter Mrs Orchard’s first-born,’ Bessie began. ‘Baby girl it was. She went cross-eyed. My next-door neighbour Elsie Dobson told me Clara Orchard took the baby out in the fog and the child got a terrible cough. Whoopin’ cough it turned out ter be. Nasty that complaint can be, let me tell yer. Anyway it turned the baby’s eyes. The child never got better. Yer can still see the poor cow walkin’ about wiv both ’er eyes pointin’ inwards. She’s got two kids of ’er own now an’ they’re both cross-eyed. No, I tell yer, Fred, yer gotta be so careful where kids are concerned.’

  Fred nodded, rolling his eyes in irritation. ‘Yes, Bessie,’ he growled.

  ‘I was only sayin’ ter my ole man last night, this ’ere fog’s a killer,’ the large woman went on. ‘That Mr what’s-’isname who used ter come round ’ere wiv the cockles on Sundays put ’is bad chest down ter the fog. Mind you though, I fink it was the pipe what did it. Never out of ’is
mouth that pipe.’

  ‘’Ave you ever thought of smokin’ a pipe?’ Fred asked suddenly, wincing at his own audacity.

  Bessie chuckled and waved her hand at him in a dismissing gesture. ‘Gawd luv us, no. Mind yer though, there’s a lot what do,’ she went on, missing the sarcasm in Fred’s remark. ‘Mrs Dingle always ’ad a clay pipe stuck in ’er gob. She used ter sit in the Kings Arms on the corner o’ Page Street shellin’ ’er peas in the summer an’ puffin’ away at that clay pipe of ’ers. She used ter wear a cap stuck on the back of ’er’ead an’ a docker’s scarf. Gawd knows what become of ’er. I ain’t seen ’er about fer ages. P’raps she’s snuffed it.’

  Fred cut into the pieces of meat with a vengeance, fighting the urge to shake the chattering Bessie Chandler by the scruff of her neck until she snuffed it. ‘P’raps she ’as,’ he replied quietly.

  Bessie was not finished. ‘Like I was sayin’ earlier,’ she prattled on, ‘yer gotta be so careful wiv kids.’

  Fred had had enough. He put down the carving knife on the chopping block and wiped his hands on the end of his apron. ‘Leave the rollin’ out, Bessie. I’ll do that. Give Carrie an ’and, will yer?’ he almost implored her.