Carrie felt unashamed abandonment as she stepped backwards towards the bed and sat down on the soft counterpane to remove her stockings. Joe smiled briefly as he slipped the buckle of his belt, and she smiled back, her tongue moving around her lips, inviting him to love her, take her in a torrent of passion. Everything was forgotten now as he moved towards her, roused to the full. She moved up onto the bed and reclined against the high pillows, her arms spread out to receive him. Two nude, hot bodies met delicately at first but with a growing need, and finally he was above her, his eyes flashing and his hands spread on both sides of her heaving breasts. He lowered himself until his lips were just an inch from hers and she moved slightly, guiding him, urging him to take her. He let his lips brush hers and then as the pressure increased she let out a deep sigh of pleasure. He was one with her now, his body moving over her slowly at first and then faster and faster until she was groaning with the exquisite pleasure, on and on, until his brow was wet with sweat and his arms were shaking. Suddenly a feeling grew from deep inside her, threatening to burst forth and drown her with its intensity. She closed her eyes tightly, letting the feeling grow with no abating, and then she knew for the first time in her life the feeling of true ecstatic fulfilment.
Joe had sunk down on to her. His exhausted body heaved as he pulled himself up on his elbows. ‘Darlin’,’ he groaned, ‘you were beautiful.’
‘I’ve never known such love,’ she sighed, her face flushed with sated passion.
He slipped to one side of her, his body against hers. ‘I wanted yer from the first moment yer walked in the pub, Carrie,’ he whispered.
She turned onto her side, letting her head rest against his deep chest. ‘It jus’ ’ad ter be,’ she whispered simply, closing her eyes and losing herself in the magic of the moment.
Chapter Nineteen
The narrow, cobbled Shad Thames would have been an unlikely place for taxicabs to go on a bright summer evening, but in autumn, with the river mist swirling out into the dark, empty lane, it was outlandish. All the warehouses and wharves were bolted and barred with one exception, and the taxi drivers had only agreed to drive through the deserted area to James’s Wharf because their fares were well dressed and respectable-looking. Most of them carried a briefcase or a thin leather case, and they paid the taxi drivers adding good tips, but the drivers were glad to get back into the brightly lit main roads nevertheless, and being too well mannered to ask questions they were left wondering why they had been required to go to such a place so late in the evening. The taxi drivers who carried ships’ officers and dock officials to and fro in Bermondsey and Rotherhithe knew the riverside area as a rough place of drab streets and large factories and wharves, where the hard life and the often dangerous pubs near the Thames attracted only the most foolhardy and reckless of strangers. If it had not been for the sense of purpose in the faces of their fares the drivers would have recommended Soho in the West End of London, where painted women plied their trade, fortunes were won and lost at the gambling dens, and many a shady deal was struck.
During the late evening the first-floor room of James’s Wharf was filling with serious-faced individuals, who took drinks from an array of liquor on a side table then stood around in small groups, looking anxious and occasionally glancing at their pocket watches. A tall, impassive man in a dark suit stood beside the heavy iron door, his hands clasped behind his back, and in the centre of the large emptied warehouse there was a long table covered with a green baize cloth and surrounded with chairs. Ashtrays were set on the table and at each end there was a filled water jug and a tray of glasses.
A short, stocky man in his sixties had hurried in carrying a briefcase. He ushered the waiting group to the table.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I take it you’ve all served yourselves? If so we’ll get down to business without more ado. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Ronald James and I’m the owner of this wharf. I’d like to begin by saying that after meeting and talking to an old friend of mine, who I regret to say is not here as yet this evening, I decided to make this room available to discuss a matter which is of concern to us all. Now before I go on, is there anyone here who is in any way in the dark as to the business in hand?’
The silence encouraged the wharf owner to continue. ‘Most of you I know personally and I see we’re fairly well represented. All of you sitting here tonight have been personally invited and I can see wharfingers, transport contractors, factory owners, as well as businessmen in various fields of endeavour. All of us have one thing in common: we trade in this area, and in saying that I include Rotherhithe too. All of us earn our living in one way or another from the River Thames where merchants have settled and worked since Roman times, and it’s no coincidence that a thriving trading community has developed in this area over the years. We have a river gateway, ample space for dockage and storage, inland waterways, a growing railway system and a plentiful workforce of craftsmen, rivermen, labourers and factory workers. We can all of us compete, trade together, and help each other along the road to prosperity as long as we’re allowed to carry on in our respective professions unhampered by interference, legal or illegal, and I emphasise the latter because it is the reason for the very nature of this meeting here tonight.’
The speaker was interrupted by George Galloway who entered the room puffing loudly from climbing the stairs.
‘Sorry I’m late, Ron,’ he grunted, going to the far table to pour himself a glass of whisky. ‘The bloody taxi driver wouldn’t drive down ’ere. I dunno if ’e expected me ter rob ’im.’
There was some laughter at the remark and Ronald James raised his hands for silence. ‘To bring us to the point of the meeting,’ he went on, ‘I’d just like to say that it would appear certain forces are being matched against us, and if we do not assert ourselves and oppose those forces we will find that we are unable to store, shift, buy or sell without first consulting and getting permission from a self-appointed godfather.’
There was a murmur from the gathering and George Galloway banged his fist down hard on the table. ‘Why don’t yer cut out the fancy talk an’ get ter the point, Ron?’ he said in a loud voice. ‘We all know why we’re ’ere. What I wanna know is, ’ow are we gonna deal wiv it?’
Everyone at the table stared at the heavily built man with thick grey hair and a red bloated face and then looked back at the speaker. Ronald James smiled patiently at Galloway.
‘That’s what we’re here for, George.’
‘Is there any information available regarding the application for an entertainments licence, and do we know who it might be registered under?’ one of the gathering asked.
‘As far as we can ascertain no application has yet been made,’ the speaker replied. ‘What we do know is, there has been a bid put in for the old Town Music Hall by a company calling themselves Eastern Enterprises. The same company own properties throughout the East End of London. That’s the first link. The second is that the bid bears the name of the company secretary, a man by the name of Martin Butterfield.’
The vacant stares were noted by George Galloway. ‘Butterfield is a company solicitor an’ ’e was actin’ fer Gerry Macedo over a tax fiddle. I might add that Macedo was acquitted,’ he growled.
‘Foolproof,’ an elderly man with a goatee beard grunted.
‘Exactly,’ Ronald James replied. ‘If the bid is successful there’s a double opportunity here. The company can develop the property and apply for an entertainments licence, and if their application is unsuccessful they can demolish the present building and sell the site off as building land when the price warrants it. Eastern Enterprises have subsidiaries as you will have guessed,’ James added, looking pleased with himself.
The young man sitting at the end of the table looked along the line of serious faces. ‘We can sit ’ere an’ agonise over what’s takin’ place an’ what’s likely ter be, or we can take one of two actions,’ he said quietly.
‘What’s on yer mind,
Joe?’ Jack Pickering, a local transport contractor, asked him.
‘We can use the local organisations and clubs, such as they are in Rovver’ithe an’ Bermon’sey, an’ put the information we ’ave in front of ’em,’ Joe Maitland suggested. ‘The local Labour Party, the men’s Labour clubs an’ social clubs, an’ the Communist Party more than anyone would be dead against Macedo’s scheme goin’ ahead. They’ll make noises ter the papers, an’ wiv a bit o’ luck one or two o’ the councillors may turn out ter be on our side, yer never know. We can get the local groups ter put pressure on the Borough Council, the City o’ London an’ the L.C.C. ter purchase the land fer blocks o’ flats, ’specially when they know what’s likely to ’appen ter the neighbour’ood. There’s a couple of active charities in the area too, so I understand. They might be able to ’elp out.’
‘An’ what’s the other action you have in mind?’ the elderly member with the beard asked.
Joe looked around at the blank faces. ‘We could form our own consortium and buy the property ourselves,’ he said with conviction.
The speaker looked from one to another of them. ‘Well, gentlemen?’
Galloway leaned forward in his chair. ‘I say we should turn over everyfing we ’ave ter the police,’ he said. ‘Let them deal wiv the application fer an entertainments licence. If they know what’s goin’ on they’ll oppose it.’
Joe Maitland looked at the old man. ‘It won’t work,’ he said quickly. ‘The company buyin’ in is a legitimate company. Licence or not it’ll mean Macedo’s got ’is foot in the door. ’E’ll bide ’is time. There’ll be money spread about an’ a few charities serviced. Once Macedo’s crowd get a foot’old in the area there’ll be no stoppin’ ’em. You should know that, George.’
Galloway was on his feet. ‘What yer sayin’, yer young pup?’ he snarled.
‘Are yer gonna deny you an’ Macedo were pals once?’ Joe asked in a steady voice.
‘I’m not denyin’ anyfing,’ Galloway shouted. ‘I did know Macedo. We did the boxin’ circuits tergevver. I’ve drunk wiv the man in the past, but I was never involved in anyfing illegal wiv ’im, or anybody else fer that matter.’
Joe Maitland waited for the noise to die down. ‘My information is that it was Gerry Macedo who burned my ware’ouse down, which nearly took the life o’ Will Tanner, your friend an’ loyal worker fer a good number o’ years, George. Don’t fink people’s eyes an’ ears are shut ter what’s takin’ place around ’ere. If we go down there’ll be nobody ter blame except us.’
The speaker raised his arms for silence, then he looked down at his clasped hands. ‘It seems to me that there are three main proposals put forward,’ he said quietly, looking up at the gathering. ‘Do we have any more forthcoming? Well then, I’ll remind you what the options are in case you’ve forgotten. First we have Maitland’s initial proposal that we inform the local clubs and organisations and encourage them to make their voices heard. Is there a seconder?’
The elderly man raised his hand.
‘Then we have his other proposal that we form a consortium, ’ the speaker went on. ‘Any seconder to that proposal?’
No one responded and Ronald James looked over his spectacles at the men around him. ‘The last proposal is that we turn all our information over to the police. Is there anyone who wishes to second the last proposal?’
Again there was silence and the speaker adjusted his position on his chair before continuing. ‘Well, gentlemen, we have one seconded proposal on the table. I think we should take a vote. All those in favour of informing the local groups of our information, raise your hands.’
Only George Galloway and another man sitting near him kept their hands down.
‘Those against.’
Galloway raised his hand and the other man sat passive.
‘We have ten for, one against and one abstention,’ the speaker said, looking pleased with himself. ‘I say the vote is carried. I’ll need a few of you to remain behind to help me formulate the information. We’ll also need a list of known groups in the area who might make use of our information. Can I ask you for one to remain behind, Mr Maitland?’
Galloway had risen to his feet to button up his navy blue overcoat, and as Joe Maitland passed he glowered at him. ‘There was no need ter say what yer did,’ he said in a dark voice.
Joe looked him in the eye. ‘I didn’t mention everyfing, George. Yer can fank me fer that at least,’ he replied.
Galloway returned his stare and was about to reply, but instead he turned on his heel and left the room.
During the autumn Carrie had managed to meet Joe Maitland on only two occasions, and each time it was at his flat in Bermondsey Square. The time they spent in each other’s arms was far too short, she regretted, but the love she felt for him helped to sustain her through the long arduous days and miserable nights. Her husband Fred now seemed to have little interest in her as a woman and for that Carrie was grateful, although she found it disturbing that he could be so jealous of her and suspicious of her movements yet uninterested in making love to her. Perhaps it was her marrying him without ever plainly professing her love which had finally made him lose interest in her, she thought. But there was Rachel, and the baby she had lost so early in her pregnancy. There were times in the past when he had been eager for her body, and it hurt her to remember how she had lain beneath him praying for him to finish loving her. It had become a trial as the months and years slipped by, and now Fred seemed to be ageing fast. He was still only fifty-two but he looked older, and his whole life seemed to be absorbed by the dining rooms now. Even the occasional visit to the pictures or the music-hall on Saturday night was always at Carrie’s suggestion, otherwise Fred would not have bothered to make the effort at all.
The only bright thing in her life apart from her rare meetings with Joe was Rachel. She was six years old now and growing into a tall, beautiful young girl with flaxen hair, an oval face with rosebud lips and tiny ears, and pale blue eyes which were always bright and enquiring. Bessie adored her, as did the two helpers Lizzie and Marie who often took her out for walks or collected her from school. She seemed to be the only person Fred lavished his love on, and Carrie came to realise that maybe he was holding on to the one thing he had left in his life as their loveless marriage grew cold.
On the last Saturday before Christmas Danny Tanner was married to Iris Brody and the reception was held at the Brodys’ house in Wilson Street, a little backstreet a few turnings along from Page Street. Billy Sullivan acted as Danny’s best man and very soon became drunk and decided that he should give a demonstration in the art of fisticuffs to the Brody family, despite Annie McCafferty’s pleading with him to behave. Joe Brody pushed him away with a sweep of his huge hand and his eldest son Vic did likewise. Fred the middle son felt he should teach the Sullivan boy a lesson and was promptly knocked to the ground in the back yard. He had had enough and it was left to Paul, the youngest of the Brody tribe, to put the ex-boxer in his place. Billy was in his thirties and past his best but at twenty-eight he considered Paul to be a mere stripling as they good-naturedly shaped up to each other.
‘Right then. First one ter go down is the loser,’ Billy announced.
‘Are yer sure yer wanna fight me?’ Paul said.
‘Sure as yer got an ugly face,’ Billy slurred.
‘If I was as ugly as you I’d only go out when it’s dark,’ Paul told him.
‘Well, I fink yer the ugliest bloke in Bermon’sey,’ Billy went on, ‘an’ jus’ fer that I’m gonna try an’ change the shape of yer face. Yer’ll come ter fank me fer it one day.’
The two sparred and circled around each other menacingly, and suddenly Billy dropped his hands to his sides. ‘Look, if yer keep on dancin’ round me like a fairy yer gonna tire yerself out,’ he laughed. ‘Why don’t yer sling a punch?’
The offer was too good to turn down and Paul immediately threw a straight right hand which felled Billy.
‘I reckon that makes me the win
ner,’ he said grinning.
Billy staggered to his feet and shook his head from side to side. ‘That don’t count. I wasn’t ready,’ he moaned.
‘It was you who told me ter sling a punch,’ Paul reminded him.
‘C’mon, ugly. Let’s see what yer made of,’ Billy taunted him, circling around with his fists held high in front of his face.
Paul threw another straight right hand and this time it caught Billy on the nose. Blood trickled down his chin as he stepped back a pace.
Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 27
