Aggie was at her wits’ end. ‘What can I do?’ she had implored Nellie.
‘They sell some good stuff at Goodrich’s,’ Nellie informed her. ‘It’s s’posed ter be odourless.’
Aggie went along to Goodrich’s, the local ironmonger.
‘It ain’t exactly odourless,’ the helpful Mr Goodrich told her. ‘But it ain’t a bad smell really. More like turpentine, but it’s really effective. I put some down in my place an’ I ain’t seen any signs of mice since,’ he said encouragingly.
Aggie bought a packet of Ransome’s Rodent Ridder from the shopkeeper and was soon back to complain. ‘It smelled the place out an’ I ’ad ter chuck it away,’ she moaned.
‘Well, I suggest yer get yerself a good mouser,’ Mr Goodrich told her in no uncertain manner.
‘Oh, no! I couldn’t stand me ’ome gettin’ tore ter pieces, an’ they’re so smelly,’ she moaned.
Mr Goodrich laughed. ‘Listen, missus. If yer take pride in yer ’ome I’d suggest yer get a mouser. If they’re neutered they don’t smell. Good cats keep the ’ome free from rodents an’ they make good pets. If yer train ’em right they do their business in a tray in the yard, an’ they don’t take much ter keep.’
Aggie went away thinking about what she had been told and she confided in Nellie Tanner once more. ‘I’ve decided ter get a mouser. It’s gotta be neutered though,’ she insisted.
Nellie had no idea where her friend Aggie could obtain a neutered tomcat but she had made enquiries. The memory of the outcome brought a smile to her face on that Saturday morning as she walked down towards the crouching figure of Aggie.
She had asked William about getting Aggie a cat but he had no idea where a tomcat could be found on the quick and he shook his head. ‘I’ll ask George the roadsweeper,’ was all he could suggest.
Two days later William had a piece of good news for Nellie. ‘I ’ad a word wiv George about that cat,’ he told her. ‘D’yer remember ole Broom’ead Smith the totter?’
Nellie nodded. ‘I ain’t seen ’im about fer years. ’E was always up an’ down the street.’
‘Accordin’ ter George, ole Broom’ead is back in circulation, ’ William went on. ‘’E went ter live wiv ’is daughter an’ ’er ’usband somewhere in Kent. Anyway, Broom’ead caused so many problems there that ’is daughter’s ’usband told ’er that eivver ’er farvver went or ’e would. So Broom’ead clouts ’im an’ packs ’is bags. ’E’s livin’ somewhere orf the Tower Bridge Road an’ ’e’s got ’imself anuvver ’orse-an’-cart.’
‘What’s that got ter do wiv Aggie’s mouser?’ Nellie asked him impatiently.
‘Well, George said Broom’ead’s got a litter o’ kittens in the stable where ’e keeps ’is ’orse an’ ’e said Aggie can ’ave one of ’em fer two bob.’
Nellie’s face had brightened up. ‘Good. I’ll tell Aggie right away,’ she said.
Two days later a horse-and-cart pulled up in Page Street and an elderly man with a shock of ginger hair sticking out from both sides of his battered trilby stepped down and knocked at Aggie’s front door. ‘I’ve come about the kitten,’ he announced.
‘Are yer Mr Broom’ead Smith?’ she asked.
‘I’m Bill Smith,’ the totter replied sharply. ‘I don’t use that monicker, if yer get me meanin’. I’ve got yer moggie in a box on the cart. Shall I bring it in?’
Aggie looked horrified as she caught sight of the horse dung on his hobnailed boots. ‘There’s no need fer that,’ she told him. ‘I’ll come an’ get it.’
‘Please yerself, missus,’ Broomhead replied curtly. ‘Keep the fing in the front room near yer fire. I’ve jus’ took it away from its muvver so it’ll need the warmth.’
Aggie accompanied the gangling totter to his cart and when she peered into the cardboard box and saw the kitten she shook her head sadly. ‘Poor little mite. It don’t look very lively. Is it all right?’ she asked him.
‘Course it’s all right. I wouldn’t be sellin’ it ter yer if it wasn’t,’ Broomhead said sharply. ‘Give it a month or two an’ it’ll catch all yer mice. Its muvver is a good mouser.’
Aggie paid Broomhead the florin and took the kitten into her spotless home. That night the little creature did not stop crying and its pitiful little squeak tore at Aggie’s heartstrings. She took the kitten in its little cardboard box to the bedroom and was constantly getting up all night, peering at the tiny bundle of black fur. Harold was becoming more and more irritable with his wife’s bouncing in and out of bed and he declared that if the mice saw the kitten they might well decide to make a meal of it.
Aggie persevered with the kitten and when it was time to get it neutered she went along to the local vet, who informed her that the tomcat was in fact a ‘she’. Aggie was mortified. She could not stand the thought of having a she-cat which would one day give birth to a large litter in her nice clean home and she did not wait to find out whether or not she-cats could be neutered. Aggie finally found the cat a good home and from that day onwards she had kept up a running battle with her mice, reverting to paper plugs soaked in vinegar, which seemed to be reasonably effective.
Nellie Tanner had reached Aggie’s front door and she stood over the dumpy, dark-haired woman. ‘’Ow’s ’Arold, Aggie?’ she asked. ‘I ’eard ’e was orf work wiv ’is back.’
‘It’s a lot better now fanks, Nell. ’E’s goin’ back Monday,’ Aggie told her. ‘I’ve bin rubbin’ ’im wiv that liniment ole Doctor Kelly give me, an’ I made ’im wear a sheet o’ brown paper under ’is vest. ’Ow’s your Will keepin’?’
‘E’ s not so bad,’ Nellie replied. ‘Mind you, ’e’s not bin the same since ’e left the yard. I fink ’e still misses those ’orses.’
Aggie got up from her knees and grunted as she placed her hand in the small of her back. ‘I still expect ter see ’im come walkin’ out o’ that yard,’ she said, nodding to the Galloway stables on the bend of the street. ‘It used ter be nice when there was only ’orses in that yard. ’E’s got four lorries in there now an’ I did ’ear ’e was lookin’ fer anuvver place. Sooner the better, if yer ask me.’
Nellie nodded her agreement. ‘I was glad ’e didn’t get that site where our Carrie’s got ’er cafe,’ she remarked.
‘’Ow is young Carrie?’ Aggie asked. ‘I ain’t seen much of ’er lately. I was surprised at ’er marryin’ Fred Bradley. I always reckoned ’er an’ young Billy Sullivan was goin’ ter get tergevver. I was only sayin’ ter my ’Arold the ovver day, I ain’t seen nuffink o’ Carrie Tanner lately. I always remember ’er walkin’ up the turnin’ wiv ’er ’ead ’eld up. Such a pretty fing too. ’Ow’s ’er Rachel doin’?’
‘She’s lovely,’ Nellie told her. ‘Gettin’ on very well. Carrie’s got a nurse ter look after the baby while she works be’ind the counter. Very nice young woman. Irish she is. I’ve met ’er a couple o’ times.’
The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Florrie Axford, a tall, lean woman in her early fifties. Florrie was affectionately known as ‘Hairpin’ Axford through her use of a large hairpin which she had removed from her hair on more than one occasion to ‘make a point’, as she herself described it.
‘Still at it, Aggie,’ she said smiling and winking saucily at Nellie.
‘Somebody’s gotta do it, ain’t they?’ Aggie replied with a pained expression on her wide face. ‘What wiv them lorries up an’ down the turnin’. I reckon it should be stopped. One o’ these days there’s gonna be a bad accident, mark my words.’
Florrie nodded and puckered her lips. ‘I told that miserable bloke who looks after the lorries the same fing meself,’ she told her friends. ‘Mind yer, it’s like talkin’ ter the brick wall, talkin’ ter that silly git. ’Is ole woman’s as bad. A right miserable pair they are. Always arguin’ the toss. I could ’ear ’em both the ovver night when I walked past their winder. I could ’ear ’er voice goin’ on about somefink or the ovver. She’s got a right gate on ’er. Ugly as sin she is too.’
‘Well, she can’t ’elp ’er looks,’ Aggie remarked.
‘No, but she could ’ide,’ Florrie laughed.
Nellie pulled up the collar of her coat against the wind. ‘Well, I’d better be off. I’ve got me shoppin’ ter do before Will gets ’ome,’ she said. ‘’E finishes at twelve on Saturdays.’
‘I’m goin’ up the market, I’ll walk along wiv yer,’ Florrie said, straightening the wide lapel of her shabby coat.
The two women bade Aggie goodbye and walked back quickly along the street, turning the corner by Galloway’s yard towards Jamaica Road. They nodded to Maggie Jones and Ida Bromsgrove who were chatting together on the doorstep, and to Grace Crossley, the landlady of the Kings Arms which stood on the corner of Page Street. Grace was standing at the door of her pub chatting to Maudie Mycroft.
‘I wonder what’s goin’ on there?’ Florrie asked, always keen to keep herself informed about local goings-on.
‘I dunno, but Maudie looks a bit worried,’ Nellie replied.
‘She’s gettin’ worse,’ Florrie said contemptuously. ‘It’s that new vicar at the church, I’m sure. Yer know ’ow nervous she is. Well, since you’ve bin away from the street she’s bin terrible. Last week she was out on ’er doorstep threatenin’ ter chuck a pail o’ water over a couple o’ Galloway’s carmen. They were only ’avin’ a chin-wag outside ’er winder an’ yer know ’ow they blaspheme. Anyway, they walked orf all sheepish when she started ravin’ at ’em, an’ then she goes marchin’ in the yard would yer believe ter see ole Galloway. ’E wasn’t there by all accounts but ’is son Frank was. Well, Maudie ’ands ’im a pile o’ leaflets she got from the church an’ tells ’im ter ’and ’em out ter the carmen. Now yer know what a cowson that Frank is. ’E told ’er ter piss orf out of it in no uncertain terms an’ Maudie told ’im she was gonna send ’er ole man round ter sort ’im out. I felt sorry fer ’er Ernie. ’E come ’ome that night wiv a few drinks inside ’im an’ ’im an’ Maudie got at it. She come over ter me cryin’ ’er eyes out. She said she told Ernie what she told Frank Galloway an’ Ernie said ’e wasn’t goin’ ter get involved, an’ she should send the vicar round ter sort Galloway out. What’s more, ’e told ’er if she didn’t stop ’er silly carryin’s on, ’e was gonna leave ’er.’
‘P’raps ’e ’as,’ Nellie suggested. ‘Maybe that’s what she was talkin’ ter Grace Crossley about.’
Florrie shook her head vigorously. ‘Ernie ain’t left ’er. The poor sod was only sayin’ that ter make ’er act a bit sensible. ’E idolises ’er, despite what the silly mare’s doin’. I blame it all on ’im at the church. ’E sounds a right dopey git if yer ask me. I thought the last vicar was a bit dopey, but this one’s a sight worse. They should stick ter what they do best, like christenin’s, weddin’s an’ burials, and the Sunday services. When they start runnin’ those muvvers’ meetin’s they put a lot o’ nonsense in people’s ’eads. I only ever went ter one muvvers’ meetin’ an’ that was years ago. I remember it well.’
The two women were waiting to cross the busy Jamaica Road, and once they had scurried across between the trams Florrie continued her tale.
‘It was near Christmas. ’Ninety-eight or ’ninety-nine it would be. Anyway, my ole man ’ad pissed orf an’ I was a bit short o’ money. I only went ’cos somebody told me they was ’andin’ out food parcels. Well, I sat through the service, tryin’ not ter fall asleep, an’ then the tea an’ biscuits came round. I got a right ear’ole bashin’ from two o’ the ole dears an’ then they give out the parcels. I got a jar o’ gherkins, a woolly ’at an’ a pair o’ bedsocks. White ones they was s’posed ter be but they’d bin boiled wiv the colours I should fink. Gawd knows who they come orf of. I give ’em ter ole Granny Pridey who used ter live next door ter me. She was glad of ’em. Come ter fink of it, she ’ad the woolly ’at as well. I kept the gherkins though. I ’ad ’em wiv a bit o’ cheese on Christmas night.’
Nellie was chuckling at the story. ‘Yer done right, Florrie,’ she remarked. ‘Some’ow I can’t see you in a woolly ’at an’ bedsocks.’
‘Well, I used ter wear a cotton nightdress when that Joe Maitland lodged wiv me,’ she said smiling. ‘I reckoned it might tempt ’im, but no such luck. Now ’e’s moved out I’m back ter me flannelette.’
They had reached Bermondsey Market and they walked slowly along the line of stalls. Barrows were piled high with fruit and vegetables, and as they passed the fish stall they saw the fishmonger gutting an eel. A little way along there was a young man standing between two stalls with a tray suspended by a strap around his neck. The tray contained buttons, collar studs and various other bits and pieces. The vendor wore campaign medal ribbons and a black patch over one eye, and there was a card pinned to the tray which said, ‘Wounded on the Somme’. The two women stopped and each bought a packet of sewing needles and a pair of collar studs.
‘Gawd knows who I’m gonna give these to,’ Florrie chuckled.
‘Keep ’em ’andy, Flo. Yer might get anuvver young lodger soon,’ Nellie joked.
The women’s kind gesture did not go unthanked.
‘Thank yer very kindly, ladies, an’ may the Lord bless yer,’ the young man said in a reverent voice.
Charlie Harris was a shrewd street-seller whose appearance and demeanour tugged at the heartstrings of the compassionate. Charlie had never been wounded on the Somme. He had lost his eye when he was a young child, and the nearest he ever got to France was a trip to Brighton. The medal ribbons were borrowed from his elder brother, who really had been wounded on the Somme.
Billy Sullivan had decided that he was going to own his own gymnasium one day and the idea grew in his mind until it became an obsession. He was always talking about it and it caused much worry to his mother Sadie and her husband Daniel.
‘I’m sure ’e’s goin’ out of ’is mind about that gym, Dan,’ Sadie fretted. ‘We lost two sons in the war an’ we’re gonna lose ’im if we’re not careful. They’ll put ’im away, I know they will.’
Daniel put his arm around his large wife and patted her back gently. ‘’E’ll be all right, luv. Billy knows what ’e’s doin’,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Besides, it’s givin’ ’im somefink ter fink about. Surely it’s better than the way ’e’s bin since ’e got back from France? When I fink of all that time ’e jus’ sat at the front door wiv ’is ’ead in ’is ’ands, I shudder. At least ’e’s gettin’ out an’ about now.’
‘That’s just what I’m worried about,’ Sadie told him. ‘Billy’s runnin’ around wiv a nasty crowd of ’ippidy-’oys. ’E’ll be gettin’ ’imself inter trouble wiv the police if ’e’s not careful.’
Daniel patted his wife again and tried to reassure her, although he was worried himself about Billy’s well-being. Had he been present at the gathering in the public bar of the Queen Anne pub near the Rotherhithe Tunnel he would have been worried even more.
Billy sat in a far corner of the little pub with Chopper Harris, Frankie Albright and Freddie the Nark, and Freddie was trying hard to sound convincing as he put his plan over to his friends. Billy listened to Freddie the Nark with a growing sense of unease. He had led an exciting life in boxing circles before he went away to the war and he did not consider himself to lack nerve, but the plan the little shifty-eyed character was setting out made Billy want to get up and leave right away. He stayed, however, and as he looked around at the faces of Frankie and Chopper he worried. Frankie was rubbing his hands together and Chopper merely nodded now and then with a silly expression on his face.
Billy picked up his pint of ale and took a large draught. It was how he would have expected Frankie to react. Frankie Albright was nineteeen and just young enough to have missed the war; he had tried to sign up when he was sixteen, only to be informed upon by his mother, who had followed him down to the recruiting office. Frankie’s wrath knew no bounds and after subjecting his weeping mother to a tirade of the most vile obscenities he was thrown out of the office by a disgusted recr
uiting sergeant. Frankie had left home and was now living in lodgings in a little backstreet near the pub they were sitting in. Frankie followed the boxing scene with much interest and it was through boxing that Billy had become involved with the volatile character in the first place.
Chopper Harris, on the other hand, was a dullard who had a big heart where his friends were concerned, and it was he who often stood cups of tea or a pint for his friends. Billy had gone to school with Chopper and knew his background very well. He got his name from an incident when he was a lad. One Saturday night his father came home from the pub the worse for drink and as usual he picked on Chopper’s mother. The young lad had also been battered unmercifully many a time and on that particular night he had decided he would put an end to the violence by teaching his drunken father a lesson he would never forget. The young lad took out the large chopper his father used to cleave wood for the fire and chased the bully out of the house and down the street. His mother followed screaming at the boy to stop, but he was too incensed to hear her. At last the father fell down on to the pavement completely exhausted and convinced he was going to meet his maker there and then. The raging young lad raised the chopper above his head and brought it down with tremendous force. Sparks flew up from the pavement only a fraction of an inch from his father’s head. He raised the chopper again, but his mother threw herself upon their tormentor screaming for help. Fortunately some of the neighbours intervened, and it was they who invented the sobriquet.
Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 4
