At the head of the parade a team of horses was drawing a brewery dray which contained an effigy of a Boer soldier with his hands held over his head being prodded by a British Tommy. Along the side of the cart a white sheet was tied, with the words ‘Mafeking Relieved’ painted in red along its length. Behind the leading dray there were smaller carts, pulled by well-groomed horses. ‘Broomhead’ Smith the totter came by sitting proudly on his creaking cart, tufts of ginger hair sticking out from under his battered trilby. His horse looked unusually spruce despite the dirty, moth-eaten Union Jack that had been laid over its withers. On the back of the cart there was a rusty wringer which Broomhead had meant to remove before the parade started. He had covered it over instead and now the blanket had slipped off. The crowds laughed as he waved his whip in their direction and doffed his cap.
Carrie Tanner stood beside her father on the kerbside, holding his hand and shifting from one foot to the other. Her new button-up boots were pinching slightly but Carrie was too excited to care as the parade moved by. She was waiting for the Galloway cart with its team of two greys. She had helped her father to brush the horses and tie on their coloured ribbons; she had used the curry-comb and the large, heavy brush until their coats glistened and her arms ached. Her father had laughed as she reached up to the nags’ manes and carefully plaited the coarse strands of hair as she had been shown. At last the horses had been fed and given their tit-bits of carrot and Carrie hurried from the stables to get cleaned up. She felt proud of helping her father, and as she spotted the Galloway team jumped up and down excitedly. ‘Look, Dad, look!’ she cried out. ‘Don’t they look luvverly?’
William Tanner smiled at his eldest child and moved to one side so that she could get a better view. ‘You did a good job, Carrie,’ he said, his hands resting on her shoulders. ‘I should reckon we stand a good chance o’ gettin’ the prize.’
As the cart drew level William cast a critical eye over the cart. He had spent much time scrubbing the paintwork and the name ‘George Galloway, Carter’ now stood out clearly on the side. Galloway’s longest serving carman Sharkey Morris was up in the dicky seat and waved to Carrie and William as he rode by. Sharkey had a bowler hat on, and for the first time in his life was wearing a white starched collar and black tie. The brown tweed suit which he wore was not his. It had been loaned to him by the owner of the cartage firm, who was anxious to snatch the first prize for the best turned-out entrant in the parade. William smiled to himself as he recalled what Galloway had said when he saw Sharkey march into the yard early that morning: ‘Gawd ’elp us, Will. ’E looks a bleedin’ scruff. I can’t ’ave ’im sittin’ up on that cart lookin’ like that. Bring ’im in the office an’ I’ll send young Geoff ’ome fer one o’ me old suits.’
The parade had passed by. William took his daughter’s hand as they followed on to New Kent Road where the judging was to take place. Carrie felt the excitement growing inside her as she hurried along beside her father. Her tight boots were making her hobble but she ignored the pain. She wanted desperately for Galloway’s horse and cart to win the prize, for her father’s sake. He had worked hard on the wagon and team and she knew how much winning would mean to him.
At nine years old Carrie was more like her father than her three younger brothers. She was slim, with long fair hair and blue eyes a shade or two darker than his. She was a pretty girl with a saucy smile which seemed to start at the corners of her mouth and light up her whole face. Carrie loved her father dearly and spent as much time as she could in the stables, helping him with the horses and polishing the brasses and harnesses. She loved the warm sweet smell of the stalls and the sound of steel horseshoes over the cobbles as the animals set out each morning pulling the empty carts. On occasions she would feign sickness or a sore throat to escape having to go to school, but then she would make a miraculous recovery during the day and slip out from the house to the adjoining yard.
Her father laughed at his wife Nellie’s concern over their daughter. ‘She’s a bright child an’ she’s gonna do all right,’ he had told her.
Nellie had shaken her head in dismay. ‘It’s not right, ’er bein’ away from school so much, Will,’ she replied. ‘The child needs ter learn ’er lessons. Besides, it’s not proper fer a young gel ter ’ang around in that yard. She could get injured wiv those carts in an’ out.’
William had pulled a face. ‘Look, Nell, the child’s ’appy wiv what she’s doin’.’ he retorted. ‘She’s gonna grow up soon enough, an’ what’s in store fer ’er? I’ll tell yer - she’s gonna slog away in a tannery or in one o’ the factories. Then she’s gonna get married an’ be saddled wiv kids. Let ’er be ’appy while she can.’
The day was bright with a warm sun shining down on the entrants as they lined up in New Kent Road. All the carmen stood beside their horses, waiting for the mayor to arrive. Broomhead Smith scowled as he looked at the rusty wringer on the back of his cart. He was upset by some of the comments made to him by the waiting crowd.
‘Oi, Broom’ead! Are yer gonna mangle the mayor if yer don’t win?’ one wag called out.
‘’Ere, is it all right fer me ter bring a pissy mattress round an’ sling it on the cart, Broom’ead?’ shouted someone else.
The totter tried to ignore their remarks but he could barely contain his anger after one of the councillors strolled by and then had a whispered conversation with a policeman standing nearby. The PC strolled up to Broomhead with a wide grin on his ruddy face. ‘’E asked me ter get yer ter move the cart, Broomy,’ he said, trying to look serious. ‘’E didn’t know yer was in the parade.’
‘Silly ole sod,’ Broomhead spluttered. ‘Where’d they dig ’im up from?’
The policeman’s face broke into a grin again. ‘I reckon the wringer ain’t too bad. Could do wiv a rub down an’ a coat o’ paint though,’ he said as he walked off.
The mayor was walking slowly along the line, stopping at each cart and consulting with his colleagues. Notes were scribbled down into a notebook by one of the judges and heads nodded vigorously. When they reached the totter’s cart the judges shook their heads and walked on quickly, much to Broomhead Smith’s chagrin, but when they arrived at Galloway’s horse and team the mayor looked pleased with what he saw. Carrie looked up into William’s face, her hand tightening on his. Crowds were milling around the dais which had been set up by the park gates, and when the mayor climbed up on to the stand and held his hands up for silence everyone started jostling.
‘Quiet! Quiet!’ one of the councillors called out. ‘Be quiet for the mayor.’
Broomhead recognised the man as the one who had earlier had words about him with the policeman. ‘Shut yer gob, Ugly,’ he called out. ‘’Ow d’yer like ter get mangled?’
The laughter died away as the mayor began his speech, in which he praised the hard work undertaken by everyone involved. He then went on at length about the gallam soldiers who had held out at Mafeking for so long and the equally valiant action which had finally relieved them. Loud cheers went up at his words, but when the mayor started to itemise the good work being done by the local council the crowds became restless.
‘Knock it on the ’ead, mate,’ someone called out.
‘Tell us who’s won, fer Gawd’s sake,’ the cry went up.
The dignitary held up his hands and as the crowd quietened he put on his pince-nez and stared at the slip of paper in his hands for a few moments.
‘The first prize goes to George Galloway,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Second prize goes to ...’
Carrie’s squeal of delight almost drowned out the name of the runner-up as she hugged her father. ‘We won! We won!’ she cried out, looking up into his smiling face.
William looked over to the park railings and saw the bulky figure of George Galloway being patted on the back and having his hand pumped by his supporters.
Carrie turned to her father as she saw the firm’s owner starting to walk towards the mayor. ‘It should be you goin’ up ter get the pr
ize, Dad,’ she said with a small frown. ‘It was you what won it.’
William smiled briefly. ‘It’s all right, Carrie. Mr Galloway knows that.’
After a few words had been exchanged between Galloway and the mayor, the trophy, a large silver tankard, was held up in the air and clapping broke out. The winner was surrounded by his friends and well-wishers as most of the spectators moved off home. William took his daughter’s hand and they left too, walking back to Page Street in the spring sunlight.
The Tanners’ home was a two-up, two-down house which adjoined the Galloway cartage firm in Page Street. It was the end house in a row of terraced houses that led from Jamaica Road towards the River Thames. From the main thoroughfare the narrow turning looked like most of the working-class streets in Bermondsey. It was cobbled and gaslit, with a small pub situated on the left-hand corner and a tiny tobacconist and sweet shop on the right. Two rows of identical houses stretched down towards the Galloway yard which stood on the bend, where the street turned to the right. The cartage contractor’s headquarters was a brick-built construction with a weather-board frontage and wooden gates which swung back into the cobbled stable yard. The gates faced the Jamaica Road end of the turning and the right-hand part of the premises, which were used to store the wagons, stretched along past the bend to where another two rows of houses faced each other across the narrow turning as it led along to Bacon Street.
The street looked very much the same as many other Bermondsey backstreets. Lace curtains hung in the windows of the ramshackle houses and the doorsteps were whitened. Most of the chimney-pots leaned askew and the grey slated roofs dipped and curved in an uneven, untidy fashion. Bacon Street had its own particular blight, however, in the shape of a tall four-storey tenement block. Even the tenants of the damp, draughty and overcrowded houses surrounding the building dreaded the thought of having to live in such a terrible place.
Inside the Tanners’ house, the family was gathered around a low fire. The evening had turned chilly and the parlour door was closed against the draught which blew along the passage from the ill-fitting street door. Nellie Tanner was sitting in her usual armchair beside the fire, a partially finished piece of embroidery lying in her lap. Nellie was a slim, attractive woman with a fair complexion and deep blue eyes. At thirty, her face was unlined and smooth. Her rather shapely figure was accentuated by a close-fitting long dark skirt which reached down over her ankles and a high-buttoned linen blouse with ruffled sleeves which hugged her full breasts and narrow waist. Her fair hair, which was a shade lighter than her husband’s, was swept up from her neck and piled on top of her head, secured with a wide mother-of-pearl fan comb.
Nellie liked to dress up on Sundays. When the main meal of the day was over she would go to her room and wash down in the tin bath before putting on her clean, freshly ironed Sunday best. She knew it pleased William to see her looking nice when they sat together in the long evening after the children had gone to bed, and she was aware that it roused him when she wore her tight-fitting clothes. Her long neck and high round forehead were exposed by her swept-up hair, which Nellie occasionally touched as she talked with her husband.
William Tanner was of medium height and powerfully built. His wide shoulders and muscular arms bore witness to eighteen years of hard manual work for George Galloway. Now, having seen his efforts with the parade wagon rewarded after a long hard week in the stables, William was feeling relaxed and contented. He eased back in the armchair facing Nellie’s and stretched out his legs. His pale blue eyes stared into hers as she spoke and he could sense irritation in her voice.
‘I know yer was pleased, Will, an’ yer’ve a right ter be, but yer’d fink Galloway would ’ave at least come over an’ fanked yer,’ she was saying.
William raised his eyes in resignation. ‘It was awkward, really, Nell,’ he replied. ‘There was people millin’ around ’im an’ I don’t s’pose ’e got the chance. ’E’ll see me termorrer. There’ll be time then.’
Nellie felt angry that her husband had been ignored by George Galloway at the parade. Every weekday morning William opened the yard and issued Galloway’s work orders to the carmen. Then there was the managing of the stables and the locking up after the last van was in, sometimes late in the evening. It was the same when one of the horses was lame or a horse sale was going on. Her husband was on call from dawn till dusk. True, William was paid two pounds a week, but he earned every penny of it, she told herself. It would cost George Galloway much more to call the vet in every time. Ever since they had married ten years ago, and Galloway rented them the house the carter had taken advantage of William - and her - one way or another, Nellie thought with bitterness. She knew she could never talk to her complaisant, easy-going husband of her own hatred for Galloway, and it tormented her cruelly.
William leaned forward in his armchair and Nellie was brought back to the present.
‘I’ll need ter slip into the yard before it gets too late,’ he said, yawning. ‘There’s the cob ter check. It might be the strangles.’
Nellie sighed and shook her head. ‘Yer’d better get in there then, Will. Yer promised me we was goin’ ter the pub ternight.’
William grunted as he eased himself out of the chair. ‘I’d better call up ter Carrie. She wanted ter come wiv me.’
Nellie was about to object but then thought better of it. Carrie was so like her father. She loved the horses and was worried about her favourite, the small Welsh cob that had been running a fever and had been taken out of the main stable.
Nellie heard her husband call Carrie and then the sound of the front door opening and closing. With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
William undid the padlock and pushed open the wicket-gate. The yard was shadowy and quiet as he led the way to the left-hand side of the cobbled area where the horses were stabled. The building had two levels, and the upper floor was reached by a long straw-covered ramp. A loophole looked out from the higher level, near the noisy chaff-cutting machine and the harness room. The lighter, younger horses were stalled on this floor, and below in the larger stable were kept the heavier shire horses.
Carrie stayed close to her father as he passed the main stable and stopped outside a weather-board shed at the end of the yard. It was in this shed that the sick horses were kept in isolation from the rest. William had transferred the cob here as soon as it started coughing, aware that the sickness could easily spread and put the firm out of business.
William picked up the kerosene lamp which was hanging outside the stable door. When he had lit it, he went in with his daughter at his side. The horse was standing in its stall, munching on the last of the chaff. As the yard foreman eased in beside it, the animal turned its head then went back to its munching.
‘That’s a good sign,’ William said, easing down the side of the cob and taking hold of its halter. ‘Well, I fink he’s over it, but ’e’d better ’ave one more day in ’ere.’ He rubbed his hand over the horse’s nose and felt its neck just below the ear. ‘The swelling’s gone down too.’
Carrie had eased herself into the stall and stood beside her father, stroking the cob’s neck. ‘Can I exercise Titch in the yard termorrer, Dad?’ she asked excitedly. ‘’E’s gotta get strong before ’e can pull that cart.’
William laughed aloud. ‘It’s school fer you termorrer, me lass,’ he said quickly. ‘Yer muvver’s bin on ter me about the time yer missin’.’
Carrie sighed. ‘Can I do it after school? Please, Dad?’
Her father put his arm around her shoulders as they stepped out into the dark yard. ‘We’ll see. Maybe after tea.’
William and Nellie had left for the corner pub and the fire in the grate had burned down to white-hot ash. The eldest of the boys, eight-year-old James, had gone to bed with no fuss, having complained of a sore throat, but Charlie and Danny were reluctant to follow him. They wanted to stay up longer while their parents were out, but Carrie would have none of it.
‘
Muvver said yer gotta be in bed by nine, Charlie,’ she scolded him. ‘Besides, Danny won’t go up on ’is own. Yer know ’e’s scared o’ the dark.’
Charlie stared down at his stockinged feet for a moment or two then his wide grey eyes came up to meet Carrie’s. ‘Can’t we stay down ’ere wiv you, Carrie? There might be ghosts upstairs,’ he said in a whisper, his eyes rolling around in exaggerated terror.
Five-year-old Danny was already half-asleep. He huddled closer to his elder brother for comfort. ‘I see a big ghost on the landin’ once, Carrie. I wanna stay down ’ere,’ he said in a hushed voice.
She chuckled as she lit a candle and set it into a metal holder. ‘Come on, I’ll see yer up the stairs. There’s no ghosts in this ’ouse. Only ’orrible children get ’aunted. Come on now, follow me.’
Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street Page 2
