Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane

by Harry Bowling

  ‘Why d’yer ’ave ter meet ’im in a pub?’ Fred asked. ‘Why can’t yer go ter the ware’ouse?’

  ‘’Cos that’s the way ter do business these days,’ Carrie told him. ‘It’s better ter sit in a cosy bar than a draughty ware’ouse.’

  ‘I jus’ fink yer gettin’ too big fer yer boots sometimes,’ he said peevishly.

  ‘We’re runnin’ a nice business now, Fred,’ she countered. ‘Since the extension we’ve almost doubled our trade an’ yer know yerself from what the customers say we’re the best cafe around - an’ our prices are right too.’

  Fred could not argue with the facts and he reluctantly went back to the kitchen. It was just after midday when Carrie arrived at the Jolly Compasses, a tiny pub off the Tower Bridge Road frequented by traders. The bar was busy. Joe came up and greeted her warmly.

  ‘What about a drink? I’ve got a table in the corner,’ he smiled.

  Carrie hesitated. Whenever she and Fred went out together it was a pint of ale for him and she usually had a shandy. Today, however, she was feeling daring. ‘Can I ’ave a port an’ lemon?’ she asked.

  They sat talking over their drinks and while Joe was shuffling a sheaf of papers Carrie watched him over her glass. He had changed very little from the time when he lived near her family in Page Street except that he looked that bit older. His dark wavy hair had one or two strands of grey now and his face was fuller, but he was certainly a handsome man still, of medium build and broad-shouldered, and he knew how to dress. His dark, double-breasted suit was immaculate and he wore a grey tie knotted tightly over a spotless white shirt. His shoes too were quality, and Carrie had noticed that his slender hands were clean.

  ‘I’ve got a complete list ’ere, Carrie,’ he was saying. ‘There’s the brand names wiv sizes alongside, an’ see ’ere, there’s the prices in this column. Yer can see the discounts allowed wiv the quantity, an’ there, see, that’s the storage rate,’ he concluded, handing her the sheaf of papers.

  Carrie put down her drink and pored over the columns of figures, feeling a little embarrassed as she sensed his eyes on her. ‘What’s this about storage rates?’ she asked him.

  Joe laughed. ‘When customers buy in bulk, an’ I mean bulk, they usually take a part order an’ we store the rest until they’re ready fer delivery. That way they save space but buy at the maximum discount. Do yer foller?’

  Carrie’s eyebrows knitted as she studied the figures. ‘But the savin’s I’d make would be lost if I’ve gotta pay fer storage,’ she told him.

  Joe moved his chair around until he was sitting at her shoulder and Carrie could feel his arm against hers. She caught a sudden scent of toilet water and felt her cheeks getting hot.

  ‘Look. Whatever quantity yer buy I’ll waive the storage charges an’ yer can take delivery at any time,’ he said. ‘As yer an ole neighbour I’ll waive the delivery charges too. ’Ow does that sound?’

  Carrie smiled at him, feeling elated with the deal he was proposing. The prices for the canned beans, tomatoes and fruit were better than those of her usual suppliers and she would be saving on delivery charges. The only thing she felt unsure about was the quantity. It would mean an initial outlay far in excess of what she normally paid to her suppliers, though the saving would show at the end of the month.

  Carrie could feel his eyes on her as she glanced again down the columns of figures then looked up at him. ‘I don’t want ter buy the ’ole ware’ouse,’ she joked, catching the glint in his eye.

  Joe took the sheaf of papers from her and held out his hand, smiling. ‘It’s a deal. Yer can say ’ow many cases of each yer want an’ I’ll see what I can do about the discounts,’ he said cheerfully.

  Carrie sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘D’yer know, I could do business wiv you any day of the week,’ she laughed.

  Joe picked up the two empty glasses and walked to the bar counter, and Carrie watched his confident manner as he eased between customers and smiled at the barmaid. She remembered the time in Page Street when the stables were blazing and her father was in danger of being trampled to death by a terrified horse. She had managed to pull the animal from him and lead it out on to the cobbles, but when she tried to return to the fire it was Joe who had restrained her bodily and dashed into the yard himself to help her father save the other horses. Since that night there had been a camaraderie between Joe and her father, and the young man had later taken William into his business as a warehouse manager when he was unemployed. Joe had always been someone she admired as a young girl and she knew that he had turned a few of the ladies’ heads. He had never married, and as far as she knew there was no regular lady in his life. Carrie had heard her father talk about Joe’s shady dealings, and she found the aura of secrecy in his life and his easy charm more than a little intriguing.

  Joe had returned. He placed two drinks on the marble-topped table. He smiled at her as he seated himself and made no effort to move his chair back away from her. As she sipped her drink Carrie could feel him appraising her. She blinked once or twice to regain her composure.

  ‘My dad was tellin’ me you ’ad a job gettin’ yerself sorted out after that fire at Dock’ead, Joe,’ she remarked.

  He nodded. ‘It was ’ard at first. I lost a lot o’ stock, an’ there was a lot I couldn’t claim for, if yer know what I mean,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘I’m all sorted out now though. Yer dad’s bin very good managin’ the new place an’ there’s a lot more room there than at Dock’ead. We’ve got a young man in ter keep ’is eye on our welfare too, but I’m sure yer dad finks ’e’s a bit barmy.’

  ‘Dad did mention ’im,’ she laughed.

  Joe became serious as he looked into her eyes. ‘Don’t worry about yer farvver, Carrie,’ he said quietly. ‘It must ’ave bin strange at first, what wiv ’im bein’ around ’orses all ’is life, but ’e’s ’appy now. We get on very well yer know. That’s why I wanted ter give yer a good deal. Yer farvver’s bin very loyal. Anuvver man would ’ave bin off like a shot after what ’appened.’

  Carrie’s face had become grave. ‘It won’t ’appen again, will it?’ she asked with concern.

  Joe shook his head. ‘I don’t know ’ow much yer dad’s told yer but it’s a bit complicated. I fink it was just a warnin’ ter let me know that I’d bin earmarked. As long as I don’t get meself involved in their affairs I’m all right.’

  ‘Who exactly are they?’ Carrie asked.

  Joe sipped his drink and put it down carefully on the table. ‘I’ve told yer farvver as much as I can an’ I’ll tell you the same. P’raps then it’ll ’elp yer understand why yer place got smashed up an’ why yer union friend Don Jacobs got attacked that same night. I don’t wanna talk ’ere though. ’Ave yer got some time? I’d like ter show yer somefink while we’re talkin’.’

  Carrie nodded. It was stuffy in the small saloon bar and the two ports she had consumed were making her feel a little light-headed. She knew that Fred would no doubt be anxious until she returned, but Bessie was now quite competent behind the counter, and there were two part-time servers who were good at the job.

  ‘Where are we goin’?’ she asked.

  Joe smiled and touched his nose with a forefinger. ‘Just wait,’ he grinned.

  The sunny day seemed extra bright as she left the pub with Joe, and she could hear the calls of the market traders and the rumble of passing trams from the bustling Tower Bridge Road as she walked beside him along a narrow sloping alleyway that led out into the main thoroughfare. She felt the cool breeze on her face and smelt the strong aroma coming from the jam factory as they walked swiftly towards the Bricklayer’s Arms junction with Joe gently holding on to her arm, and as they reached the corner he hailed a passing taxi. Soon they were travelling along the Tower Bridge Road, past the stalls and shops and then on towards the high bridge towers, and Carrie felt excited. She had never in her life been in a taxi before and she sat back in the leather seat and stared out of the window, feeling like a newcomer to
the city surveying the grimy factories and warehouses as they hurried past.

  The taxi swung left at the Tower Bridge Hotel and pulled up beside the railway arches which faced the high, busy wharves. Joe paid the driver who thanked him for the tip and then he took Carrie’s arm as he led her along a narrow side street which ran under a railway arch. They came out into the open facing a plot of waste ground with a high fence around it and he stopped and pointed. ‘What d’yer fink o’ that?’ he said mysteriously.

  Carrie was puzzled. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘Billy Sullivan’s Gymnasium could be standing there one day,’ he told her, grinning widely. ‘I’ve bin makin’ enquiries ter see if I can get this site on a long-term lease, an’ if I can I’ll rent it to our Billy.’

  Carrie looked up at him and saw the enthusiasm in his open face.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ she said.

  Joe took her arm. ‘Look, there’s a nice little cafe in Bermon’sey Lane jus’ roun’ the corner. If yer let me buy yer a meal I’ll tell yer everyfing. Is that a deal?’

  They found themselves a table by the window and Carrie leaned her arms on the chintz tablecloth and stared at the vase of flowers in the centre as Joe explained what the East End villain Gerry Macedo was trying to do. He told her all about how opposition to the gangleader’s plans to control the dockside boroughs of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe had thrown enemies together as unlikely allies, and he smiled now and then as if to allay her fears. Carrie listened intently, and when he had finished she smiled ironically.

  ‘Galloway might be doin’ all ’e can to oppose this Gerry Macedo but yer can’t get away from the fact that it was ’im, or that son of ’is, who brought ’im over this side o’ the water in the first place,’ she said disdainfully. ‘That Galloway family, an’ George Galloway in particular, ’as bin linked wiv everyfing that’s ’appened ter my family, Joe. It was my dad gettin’ the sack that forced ’im an’ mum ter live in that slum block. It was what ’appened between the families that made our Charlie go off to India, but that’s anuvver story. That family ’as got a lot to answer for.’

  Joe nodded as he sipped his coffee. ‘The Galloways ain’t exactly my favourite people eivver,’ he said quietly, his eyes fixed on her.

  Carrie looked down at the patterned tablecloth for a few moments, feeling exposed under his gaze. ‘Now what about that bit o’ land yer showed me,’ she prompted, meeting his gaze. ‘Yer was sayin’ it could be fer Billy Sullivan’s Gymnasium.’

  Joe smiled as he toyed with his coffee cup. ‘Yer dad gave me the idea,’ he told her.

  ‘My dad?’

  ‘That’s right. Apparently Billy Sullivan’s bin nursin’ this idea o’ startin’ up a boxin’ gymnasium fer the young men in the area,’ he went on. ‘Your Danny knows all about Billy’s dreams an’ ’e asked yer farvver if ’e’d talk ter me about keepin’ me eye open fer a suitable site that wasn’t too expensive. The way yer dad put it ter me I couldn’t refuse, could I?’

  ‘I fink I know what yer mean,’ she replied with a smile.

  Joe’s face took on a serious expression. ‘Yer see, when my bruvver died after bein’ beaten up by those bookies’ men I swore I’d get even. I did finally, but it don’t end there. There’s a lot o’ young men who could go the way o’ my bruvver if ever those pub boxin’ tournaments come back. Billy Sullivan’s idea is a good one. Young aspirin’ boxers could be trained and taught the pitfalls of the profession. They wouldn’t go inter the ring unprepared an’ ’ave ter fight at the whim o’ those moneygrabbin’ promoters who couldn’t care less about the young blokes they profess ter look after. So yer see why I’m tryin’ ter get that piece o’ wasteground fer Billy. It won’t be a gift, mind. ’E’ll ’ave ter rent it from me, but I’ll make sure it’ll be no ’ardship fer the lad. I might be able ter get a few friends o’ mine ter chip in wiv money an’ materials as well.’

  Carrie looked into Joe Maitland’s large dark eyes and saw how sincere he was. ‘I fink it’s a lovely idea of yours, Joe,’ she said quietly.

  He looked at her for a long time and something passed between them. Carrie felt it. It was as though her insides were tumbling over and over, and Joe felt it too. He sensed a feeling of longing, longing to take the pretty young woman with the flowing fair hair to him in a tight embrace, knowing that it was impossible. He looked away, hardly daring to let her see what was in his eyes.

  Carrie broke the pregnant silence. ‘D’yer know, I’ve really enjoyed this little meetin’,’ she said smiling. ‘I dunno what my ’usband’s gonna say when I get back ’ome.’

  ‘Well, ’e should be glad yer a smart little operator,’ Joe said with a hint of malice creeping into his voice.

  Carrie had gathered her handbag and gloves, and as she adjusted the lapels of her light green summer coat Joe closed his hand around the top of her arm.

  ‘I’d like ter see yer again,’ he said simply.

  Carrie felt her stomach twist again as she looked up at him. ‘Well, I’ll be sure ter see more of yer now we’ve got a business arrangement,’ she said, trying to keep calm.

  When they came outside the little cafe and stood in the busy street Joe took her arm again. ‘Yer know what I mean, Carrie,’ he said.

  ‘Joe Maitland, I’m a married woman,’ she answered with a quick smile, trying to rebuff him gently.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he told her. ‘I want ter see yer again.’

  ‘I couldn’t ’urt ’im, Joe. My Fred’s a good kind man,’ she said with feeling.

  They walked under the railway arch in silence. She felt the grip of his arm on hers, and Joe was aware of the softness of her and the clip of her high heels on the hard pavement. He hailed a passing cab and opened the door while Carrie got in, quietly slipping a ten-shilling note into her hand. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he told her as the taxi pulled away from the kerb.

  Carrie sat looking out of the window throughout the short journey along Tooley Street, and as the cab took the bend at Dockhead and drove along the wide Jamaica Road she could not stop thinking of the handsome young man who had wined and dined her, and reawakened certain feelings that were both delicious and dangerous.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Billy Sullivan had been very careful to avoid PC Copeland since his confrontation with him earlier that year. He had seen the big policeman in the vicinity on a number of occasions but he had so far managed to stay out of his way by crossing the road or by slipping into another turning. Billy was reminded of the danger he faced when one Saturday afternoon Copeland waylaid a drunken young man who had earlier shouted something to him from across the street. The fight on the wasteground nearby was a one-sided affair with the brute strength of the policeman overwhelming the lighter though courageous young man who was the worse for drink. Later that afternoon his friends found him staggering back, his face a terrible mess. His nose was broken and both eyes were almost closed, and he had cracked ribs and a large gash on his cheekbone. As bad as he was the young man would not say how he came by his injuries but there were one or two people who had seen the policeman leading the way on to the wasteground. No one was willing to say anything, however, and PC Copeland walked the beat around Page Street with impunity.

  Billy Sullivan was never one to duck a fight but he knew that he would stand little chance against the much heavier and taller man in the weakened condition caused by his war wound. He knew too that he would probably be taken to the police station afterwards, and then he would be in serious trouble. Billy decided that discretion was the better part of valour and began to take the long way home from work each evening. He had recently seen PC Copeland standing on the corner of Page Street outside the little sweetshop and he knew that he would be stopped if he walked into the turning from that end. He decided to walk on the other side of Jamaica Road then cross the thoroughfare opposite Bacon Street and enter Page Street from that end. His ploy worked well for a time until he was noted by the eagle-eyed owner of the swee
tshop, Clara Longley, and one evening she remarked on Billy’s strange behaviour to none other than PC Copeland when she gave him his regular cup of tea.

  Widow Longley sold sticky sweets which were kept in glass-lidded trays and licorice sticks as well as golly bars and scented cachous that gave the shop a smell all of its own. Often the local children would peer into the little establishment when they had no coppers to buy any sweets just to sniff in the aroma. The elderly shopowner would then glare at them and pull faces until they departed smartly, or, as in the case of older, more adventurous children, stood their ground and leered back at her. Widow Longley knew the business of everyone in Bermondsey, so it was said, and she was not averse to passing that business on to her few close friends. She was a tall, thin woman, with a few long whiskers on her chin and a pair of tortoise-shell glasses which she wore on the end of her long beak-like nose.

  For a few evenings Clara Longley had been watching Billy Sullivan from her shop window and she was intrigued by the fact that he seemed to take the long way home. She had found reason to cross swords with his mother Sadie years ago when the Sullivans were regular visitors to her shop, and ever since that time the two women had merely glared at each other. Widow Longley felt that the eldest Sullivan was one day going to find himself in prison, and she had taken to watching his movements with that in mind.