by Chris Hannon
‘Scrimsy? Is that you?’
He lowered his hands and relief flooded over him. It was a feller who had gone to his school, nicknamed Bigtoe.
‘Bigtoe! Wotcher! How are ya?’
‘You lucky sod, I nearly punched your lights out,’ he looked over his shoulder.
‘I’m glad you didn’t, you’re even bigger than you were at school,’ Perry straightened his clothes and cap.
‘Bleedin’ Greaves, pushin’ us around,’ Bigtoe mumbled, massaging his fist in his palm. ‘You weren’t spying on us from up there were you Perry?’
‘Just curious, never seen so many dockers in one place doing nothing. Was it something to do with The Sick? Like a remembrance or something?’
Bigtoe shook his head. ‘No. Nothing to do with that. Forget you saw anything. Look I’ve got to go, you saw Greaves rounding us all up. Getting a larrupin’s one thing, losing me job’s another. It was good to see you Scrimsy, look after yerself.’
‘What’s going on?’
Bigtoe looked apologetic and squeezed the brim of his cap in farewell.
Perry hung around the docks the rest of the day, half-looking for a target and half-tuning in to anything untoward or strange happening with the dockers. His instinct told him that where there was secrecy, there was opportunity. When the working day finished, he tailed Bigtoe and some of the other dockers at a distance. They moved like a line of ants to the Bell & Mast. Perry hovered outside the tavern, wondering if he was wasting his time and resolved to do it the simple way. He’d buy Bigtoe a drink and wheedle it out of him.
Inside it was oddly quiet. Against the window, a leathery old-timer had a squeeze-box fanned across his lap. It wheezed faint notes as he dozed. Perry must have counted forty or fifty dockers filing in but could barely count five in the bar. Perry nodded to the barman. He scowled back. Fat as a cannonball.
‘Where…’ he began, but then heard the sound of creaking boards above him. Whatever meeting they were having earlier at the docks was taking place now.
The steps that led to the top room were gloomy and their wood groaned with each step he took. Perry tiptoed slowly, hearing voices in the room above. He snuck up the last steps and peered around the doorframe.
The room was large, a mast of light powered through a small porthole at the back, dust swirling inside. As his eyes adjusted he counted at least two score clustered together in the gloom.
‘-and some of ya’s covered it, on good terms too.’
The voice came from the front. Perry heard a few grumbles in the crowd. He stood on tiptoes to get a look at the speaker. It was hard to see but through the thin line of light he caught the outline of a crooked top hat. He was sure it belonged to the lout with the bulbous nose who’d tripped him up a few days back. Bastard.
‘Now, past is past. But good terms for a day or two ain’t worth much to you and even less to our London brothers.’
‘What about us, Maxwell?’ someone yelled from the middle. The air smelt of sweat and ale. The hat bobbed up and down.
‘Exactly. What about us? Sixpence in London worth sixpence down here last time I checked,’ the crowd hummed in agreement. Maxwell lifted something into the air.
‘Dockers! It is time. This Friday,’ he paused. ‘London strike.’
The room erupted.
‘Quiet now! Shut up! Listen!’ his voice softened. ‘Listen. I say we all strike. Nobody covers London. Nobody covers here. We strike together. Co-ordinated like. London will demand sixpence a day,’ he raised a finger, ‘I say we do the same!’
‘Aye,’ a few voices rung out.
‘Our crates less weighty are they?’
‘No!’ they yelled.
‘Our hands less splintered?’ he shouted.
‘No!’ the voices echoed off the roof. Maxwell began to prowl.
‘Tis high time we too felt a tanner in the palm at day end. Greaves has had us cheap for too long!’
He lifted a paper, ‘Brothers, sign your names here! A cross will do!’
Boots thumped on the floorboards as the men lined up to sign.
‘And not a word to anyone. If Greaves finds out the place will be swarming with Blacklegs.’
‘Aye!’ the men yelled.
Perry tiptoed down the stairs.
‘And any strike-breakers among you lot…’ Maxwell’s voice faded as Perry slipped out the tavern door. An idea spread a smile across his face.
13
Huddled between a shipping insurer and a chandler, Greaves & Company Worldwide was an average sized warehouse with a red and gold sign over the vast doorway. Greaves himself was an easy man to spot, it seemed little had changed in the man’s manner since the morning. He was hovering around the warehouse doorway, cajoling the cart-pushers, stopping only to examine a pocket watch with a frown. Perry made his way over.
‘Are you nearly done?’ Greaves asked one of the passing men.
‘Aye, just a few more.’
‘Well, hurry up. This schooner should’ve been cleared an hour ago.’
Perry strolled in. ‘Bloody thing!’ Greaves’ head was down, shaking his pocket watch furiously. ‘And no, you little street urchin. You won’t have a penny off me,’ he lifted his head.
Perry instantly knew the type, the schoolmaster with eyes in the back of his head, and who wanted you to know it.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that mister,’ Perry smiled, ‘Sure a man like you would pay handsomely to know details of a-’ he glanced around and whispered behind his hand, ‘-strike.’
The weasel’s face didn’t stir. ‘My office.’
The office overlooked the warehouse floor. Perry removed his cap, bunched it in his palm and wandered round. It was surrounded on one side with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Maps and pinned notes adorned the other walls. A large globe of the world stood next to the desk. It looked like it might spin.
‘Don’t touch,’ said Greaves. He nodded Perry towards a chair and leant back on his own making a steeple with his hands. His weasely chin somehow looked noble in the lamplight. ‘So. Boy.’
‘Perry’s the name sir.’
‘Fine. Perry. Tell me what you know and I’ll determine the value of the information you’ve given me. I’m an honourable man, and I will see to it that good information is fairly rewarded. Now, let’s hear it.’
Perry shook his head, ‘It’s not going to work like that. I want five pounds, up front.’
‘What?’ Greaves laughed, ‘You’re not serious are you? You think I’d give some street scamp five pounds for pretending he knows about something?’
‘I’m no street urchin, and you’ll do well to remember who’s holding the cards here. I know the value of my information to the likes of you, sir,’ he said, not trying to hide his disdain. ‘You’ve obviously heard whisperings or you wouldn’t have invited me up here. Five pounds. The information is worth it.’ Perry sniffed and looked at his fingers. He knew how to play hard to get.
‘I won’t be blackmailed in this way!’
‘Well in what way would you like to be blackmailed?’ Perry chewed his lip in thought, ‘come to think of it, it’s not really blackmail anyway is it? I’m selling something that you want to buy.’
Greaves was clearly not amused, and folded his arms. ‘How do I know you aren’t working for them? Feeding me false information.’
This almost made Perry laugh. ‘What would they pay me with? They’ve not got a bob to scratch together between them for starters. I think sir, that might be why they’re striking in the first place. But I’m sure a businessman such as yourself has already grasped the economics of the situation better than a street scamp.’
‘Watch your cheek boy. I built this company from scratch.’
Perry wasn’t sure if he’d pushed it too far. He stood, replaced his cap.
‘Mr Greaves, I didn’t come to argue with you, I’m just sorry we couldn’t make a deal,’ he took a couple of steps towards the door and stopped. Time to give the line one last
little wiggle and see if the hook catches, ‘I just hope you’ll be ready in time.’
‘Ready? Are they doing it soon?’
‘Goodbye Mr Greaves.’
‘Wait! Come back. Confound it! Damn scamp.’ He rummaged around the drawers, ‘Alright, alright. Sit, sit, sit.’
Perry returned to the desk. Greaves held a pound note. Perry felt his hands unfurl and reach out mechanically. Greaves snatched it back, and put it under a paperweight on the table.
‘That’s yours if you tell me everything you know. You’ll get the rest on strike day, if what you say comes to pass. You can’t say fairer than that.’
Perry tried to keep cool, he couldn’t believe it; he would have taken a pound for the whole thing. Five was his outrageous bargaining position. He suddenly wondered if he should have asked for more.
‘A pound now. Four later when my information comes good. And you’ll do well to call me Perry, not scamp, urchin or whatever rubbish falls into your head.’
‘Fine, Perry. Go on. Speak.’ Greaves readied his pen and paper.
Perry gratefully took the cup. The soup stand was right at the heart of the harbour front. The sea in front was black in the darkness. Carrot soup warmed his insides and prickled his lips. Gentlemen passed, probably on their way to a club. A family man going in the opposite direction, home for supper, he supposed. The Bell & Mast was its usual self, as selective as a slop bucket. Eva and Joel would be home now, maybe preparing some supper for him to come back to later. Two port workers walked past, probably gasping for beer after an honest day’s sweat and lift. All round it had been a worthy day’s work. A pound he’d earned and he’d barely had to do a thing. With four more on its way he felt flush. Laughter came out of the tavern like giant squid tentacles. He left the rest of the soup and headed in.
With a bold grin he worked his way towards the bar. His eyes met the shoulders of most men but his slim frame quickly found a route to the front. The barman greeted Perry by placing his fat hands on the bar and offering his ear.
‘A beer please,’ Perry said. The barman scowled, possibly deaf.
‘Bitter, Stout, Porter, what?’ he said gruffly.
Perry felt his cheeks flush hot, and sensed the sudden silence of a group of men behind him. He wasn’t sure which he’d like.
‘I’ll have one of each,’ he decided.
The barman’s eyebrows shot up. A curly-haired man leant over.
‘Need some help choosing?’ it was a friendly offer, though he sounded French.
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ Perry asked.
‘Gin.’
‘One of those too then please barkeep, for my new friend,’ he pulled himself straight, ‘and get one for yourself and all.’
The barman gave him a puzzled look and pulled a fistful of tankards down from a shelf.
‘Gin, Ale, Stout, Porter and two Bitters then. You better be able to pay for these or I’ll have you beaten black and blue.’
Perry produced the pound note.
‘I hope you have enough change,’ the man with the curly-hair said.
14
Gulls screeched. He was freezing but his hands were somehow warm and tickled. Through the slits of his eyes he saw the culprit, a straggly dog dripping brown with mud. He palmed it away and tried to sit up. His head was agony. The sky was bright, so bright it hurt.
Jesus. He was outside.
He jolted upright. It was the alleyway by the tavern. Thankfully he was still clothed though his boots and trouser bottoms were caked in mud, the rest protected by a couple of sacks. His hands shot to his pockets.
The money was gone.
Panic flushed over him like a giant wave. He checked all his pockets again, praying, hoping some of it was still there but he hadn’t a penny left. The night was all such a blur, he couldn’t remember if he’d spent it or had it taken off him. There’d been music, he remembered that, and his throat felt sore from singing. Singing! He remembered the old timer with the squeeze-box and he, Perry, had been singing, dancing, drinking, more singing and more drinking. Oh the shame of it! His stomach lurched and he sat up just in time to thrust his head between his knees and vomit on the floor. The dog made its way over to see what could be salvaged.
‘Idiot!’
Perry looked up to see Greaves, standing in gentleman’s dress, a green cravat under his neck, his jaw clenched, shaking his head. His sunken eyes examined Perry with contempt.
‘I suppose your money’s gone?’
‘Taken sir.’
‘Taken indeed,’ scoffed Greaves
Perry retched again and more grey liquid splatted onto the mud. Greaves hopped back.
‘Watch my shoes you buffoon!’
‘Sorry sir,’ he wiped away a string of gob stretching from his mouth to the floor.
Hot vapours curled into his mouth and nostrils soothing his throbbing head. It was without doubt the warmest, most comfortable bath he’d ever sat in. There was a knock at the door and Greaves stepped in. Perry darted to cover himself with his hands.
‘You needn’t worry. It’s a deep bath and your dignity is adequately submerged, what’s left of it anyway. Dorothy has left you out some clothes, they’re a little threadbare but should suffice. You may keep them.’
‘Thank you Mr Greaves. Very kind,’ he mumbled.
‘Well, we are in cahoots with this strike business I suppose, and a duty of care must be provided to all workers, casual or…otherwise,’ Greaves cocked his head to one side. ‘I see you are very disappointed.’
‘I,’ he began, ‘I’ve been bloody stupid.’
‘You aren’t the first to squander such a sum believe me,’ his thin lips curved into an almost undetectable smile, ‘still, that was six months wages to a docker gone in one night! I must hand it to you Perry, few could have done better. Let alone at your age.’
‘But that money, it wasn’t just for me.’
‘Tsk, money comes and goes Perry, we never truly own it. It’s Thursday today and your money has all gone. Yet tomorrow you should have the rest of your sum and be rich again for a time. The question is how to keep more of it in your possession, more of the time. Have you ever thought about how you might do this?’
Perry chewed his nails, and shook his head. He hadn’t ever thought of it that way.
‘You could for instance, come and work for me? Despite your antics last night, you negotiated well with me. A streetwise little scamp might be just the ticket with this strike business,’ he stroked his chin, ‘I need to know what the enemy is thinking.’
Perry was taken aback, ‘I don’t know what to say Mr Greaves.’
‘A shilling for your first week? Then we can talk about something more regular if you do well,’ his pin-hole eyes narrowed. ‘Though I’d counsel a less profligate approach second time around.’
Perry couldn’t quite believe this generous being was the same man he’d spied at the cargo docks. The same man who larruped his slow moving workers with a cane. Now here he was, paying him five pounds, giving him clothes, a hot bath and regular work. He had been very fortunate indeed.
‘Thank you sir.’
‘Return here at 6am for work and I will pay you then. I must go. I have important preparations to attend to.’
Before he went back to Ma’s, Perry walked around Southampton town for a while and tried to shake the hangover off with the salty air. His heavy steps jolted his head, sharpening his headache and the skin under his eyes felt like they were hanging like hammocks. He immersed himself in the crowds and walked past shipping insurers, the liner company offices and the freight service companies that dominated Station Street. He ambled, stopping to look through a shop window with an array of barrows, buckets, mops and hoses for sale. His mind was dull and blank and he felt as if alcohol was seeping from his every pore.
‘That’s him! Get him Cecil!’
He knew the voice. Perry turned around at once. Fairbanks and Cecil were on the other side of the street.
/> ‘Shit!’
‘Criminal!’ Cecil’s stick-like frame darted across the road. ‘Cuff that boy!’
People stopped and turned to look at him, he didn’t know which way to run. A woman shrieked, pointing like he was some kitchen rat, and the sound unfroze him, got his brain working and his feet moving. He barged his way inside the shop and bundled through a path of goods, knocking stacks of buckets over, but he didn’t look back. A man appeared in front of him, the owner perhaps, yelling something, but Perry elbowed past, pushing his way to the back of the shop, through a door.
‘Oi! You can’t go back there!’
He was already through, down a narrow corridor, shoving a back door open and out into the light. He steadied himself on the slimy wall of the alley, gave a glance back and sprinted off again. A whistle blew from somewhere. He didn’t stop running. Only God knew what they would do to him if he got caught. He ran, pumping his arms, pushing himself until his lungs stung and burnt with the strain. At the end of the alleyway he came to a crossroad and took a route he thought would lead up behind the train station.
He slowed to a jog, checking over his shoulder, letting his lungs refill. The route led over the train tracks and a gap in the fence would lead him back towards home. It was only when he climbed over the rubbish heap onto the Lane that he began to relax. If he hadn’t been sure before, he was certain now – if he stayed in Southampton he’d have to constantly be on his guard.
At Ma’s, something was up. He knew it as soon as he stepped inside.
‘We’re in here,’ called Ma.
In the kitchen, Eva sprung up when he walked in.
‘Thank God you’re alright.’
‘We’ve been worried about you all night, where have you been?’ said Joel.
