Tanner Trilogy 01 - Gaslight in Page Street Page 3

  The candlelight flickered up the dark stairs and across the narrow landing, casting eerie shadows on the grimy wallpaper and brownish-stained ceiling and glimmering back dully from the brown paint of the back bedroom door. The boys huddled together, having frightened themselves with their stories of lurking ghosts, and when Carrie led the way into their room they jumped into bed and pulled the clothes up around their ears.

  ‘Stay up ’ere, Carrie,’ Danny pleaded. ‘I’m scared.’

  She glanced over at James, sleeping soundly in the single bed by the window, and then set the candleholder down on the rickety washstand. ‘All right,’ she sighed. ‘But just till yer both asleep.’

  Charlie turned on to his back. ‘I’m not tired,’ he moaned.

  Within ten minutes both the boys were sleeping soundly and Carrie tip-toed down to the parlour. She rekindled the fire so that the room would be warm when her parents returned from the pub, then sat back in her father’s chair. It was past her own bedtime but Carrie was still wide awake. It had been an exciting day but she felt sad that her father had not been allowed to collect the prize. As she stared into the flickering flames she felt suddenly deflated. She had been happy for her father that day and wanted him to be happy too, but she had seen something in his eyes. They had a sad look in them at times. Was her father happy? she wondered. Would he always be there to care for the horses and let her help him in the yard?

  The wind rattled the front door and Carrie shivered as she made her way upstairs to her front bedroom.

  The usual early morning bustle had died down at Galloway’s yard, and as soon as the last horse and cart had left the cobbles were swept clean of droppings. The sound of the chaff-cutting machine carried down into the stable yard and in through the open window of the small office as the two men sat facing each other. George Galloway was sitting on a thin-framed oak chair beside his open roll-top desk, his elbow resting on a jumble of invoices and work orders which were strewn over its surface. He wore his usual single-breasted, black serge suit and a bowler hat pushed back from his forehead, and there was a satisfied look on his broad face as he fingered a small medallion that hung from his silver watchchain.

  ‘The milit’ry are comin’ down in a couple o’ weeks, Will,’ he was saying, ‘an’ the ’orses are comin’ in this Friday, so there’s a lot ter do. I want them nags lookin’ well groomed an’ sprightly. If Sharkey an’ Soapy ain’t out on the road, they can give yer a bit of ’elp: I expect we’ll ’ave those silly cows Aggie Temple and Maisie Dougall groanin’ again but they’ll just ’ave ter put up wiv it.’

  William Tanner leaned forward in his chair and nodded. It seemed a whole lifetime since they had both run the Bermondsey streets as waifs. It was almost thirty years since the two of them had robbed the toff in the Old Kent Road and shared the proceeds, he recalled, yet only recently had George told him how he removed the medallion he was now fingering from their victim’s watch-and-chain to keep as a memento before he went to Stymie the fence. George was beginning to look old now, William thought. His heavy, powerful shoulders had started to droop and his face appeared to have a bluish colour about it. His hair was greying too, but it was the eyes that seemed to age the man most. They were puffy and heavy-lidded, and their whites had acquired a yellowy tinge. Nellie was convinced the man was killing himself with whisky, and William decided his wife was most probably right. George had been knocking it back ever since his own wife died three years ago after giving birth to Josephine.

  ‘If those two awkward mares come in ’ere moanin’, tell ’em ter piss orf,’ George was going on. ‘Better still, tell Oxford ter see ’em orf. ’E frightens the life out of ’em.’

  William smiled wryly as he thought of Jack Oxford, but he had no intention of inflicting the firm’s simpleton on the two women. They had a genuine grievance anyway, he thought. Running the horses along the street was not only exhausting for him, it could be very dangerous too. It meant that the turning had to be kept clear of people, especially children.

  ‘Where are the ’orses comin’ from?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re three-year-old Irish Draughts,’ George replied, leaning back in his chair and tucking his thumbs through the armholes of his tight waistcoat.

  The yard foreman could not help wincing at the news although he had guessed the answer. He knew that Irish Draughts were popular with the army, who used them for pulling gun carriages and for riding. He also knew that horses of this particular breed often had Arabian or Spanish blood in them, and that they were inclined to be temperamental until they were used to the harness and saddle. Running three-year-old stallions on a short halter along the cobbled street was often a tricky business, but the army buyers required it to be done so that they could be satisfied there was no lameness in the animals. William realised that this time he alone would be expected to exercise the animals. George Galloway would not let any of his carmen run the horses, not after the last débâcle.

  It had been Sharkey Morris who slipped on the cobblestones and let the rope go at the end of the turning, and by the time he had regained his feet his horse was galloping away along the Jamaica Road. The terrified animal had kept running. After scattering pedestrians in its path and kicking in the side of a tram, the sweating stallion had been captured by a young lad who calmly walked up to it and fed it a carrot before claiming the trailing rope and holding on to it until a fuming George Galloway drove up in his pony and trap.

  The yard owner interrupted William’s thoughts as he stood up and slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘By the way, Will, ’ere’s a little somefink fer the good job yer done on the wagon,’ he said, pressing a gold sovereign into William’s hand. ‘There’s ’alf a sovereign fer young Carrie too. She worked ’ard.’

  The foreman’s thanks were brushed aside with a sweep of the hand but as William made to leave George waved him back into the chair.

  ‘Sit down a minute, Will,’ he said, going to a wall cupboard and removing a bottle of Scotch whisky and two small glasses.

  William did as he was bid, noticing the unsteady way in which his employer filled the glasses. Some of the spirit spilled over the top of the glass as he took it from George’s shaking hand.

  ‘Me an’ you go back a long way, Will. ’Ow long ’ave yer bin workin’ fer me now?’

  ‘It’s comin’ up eighteen years,’ William replied, taking a swig from the glass.

  Galloway stared down into his whisky for a time, a thoughtful look in his heavy-lidded eyes, and the younger man cast his eyes around the small dusty office, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He remembered well the day when, as a young man in his early twenties, he had been persuaded by Galloway to give up his carman’s job with McSweeny’s the grain merchant’s and come to work for him as a yard foreman. The two had kept in contact over the years and William was flattered by the offer, but he had been worried about his old friend’s growing reputation for being a bad employer. There was much talk in the coffee shops and cafés then about the Galloway firm. Other employers paid more and were less likely to sack their carmen for minor things, so the talk went. William had been well aware of George Galloway’s hard nature and determination to get on as a businessman. Although they had grown up together, he knew he would not have an easy time as George’s employee. In fact, George might well take advantage of their friendship and leech off his good will.

  William had considered the job offer carefully. He was earning eighteen shillings a week and George was offering him twenty-five. He remembered what George had said when the subject of Will’s having to issue orders to older, experienced Galloway employees was raised. ‘Look, Will, I didn’t build this business up by bein’ soft, an’ I know a good man when I see one. Yer know more about ’orses than all my drunken sods put tergevver. They’ll take orders, or they’ll soon find themselves out o’ work. Besides, yer a good carman. Yer ’andle a team of ’orses as good as anybody I’ve got workin’ fer me. Better, in fact.’

>   George was staring at him now, his tired eyes unblinking as though he were reading Will’s thoughts. ‘Yer know, I’ve never got over my missus dyin’ the way she did,’ he said suddenly. ‘It was only this business o’ mine that stopped me from doin’ away wiv meself.’

  William remained silent, waiting for the older man to go on.

  ‘It’s bin ’ard at times, tryin’ ter keep this business on its feet,’ George said finally. ‘A couple o’ years before Martha died, I thought I was goin’ under. Yer remember when I was scratchin’ fer work an’ the ’orses got that fever? Well, that was the worst time. Luck was wiv me though, Will. After I got that contract ter deliver the ’ops an’ then that contract wiv the skin-dressers, I didn’t look back. Mind you, I’ve ’ad ter put the fear up some o’ those carmen o’ mine. Sackin’ one or two of ’em brought the rest in ter line. I know yer didn’t approve o’ those sackin’s, but I fink yer knew I was right.

  ‘Yer see, that’s the difference between me an’ you, Will. Yer a gentle man. Outside yer ’ard, but inside yer just soft. Yer always was, even as a kid. Remember the time we knocked that ole toff over? Yer could ’ave got yerself nicked goin’ back ter see ’ow ’e was. Softness is weakness in business, Will. It’s why I’ve succeeded. I’m ’ard where me business is concerned. I swore I’d do well one day, never ’ad any doubts abaht it. When yer sleepin’ wiv yer arse restin’ on the cobbles an’ yer belly cryin’ out fer food, yer know yer can’t get no lower, ’cept under the ground, so there’s only one way ter go, an’ that’s upwards. Yer done well too, Will, in yer own way. Yer got a nice wife, an’ four respectful kids. Yer gotta job fer life wiv me, an’ yer’ve earned the men’s respect. Yes, yer done well.’

  William had let George go on without interrupting him, surprised to find him in one of his rare talkative moods. There was a lot of truth in what he had said. There was a difference between the two of them. It was something they had both always been aware of and something that had tended to put a distance between them as kids, even though they were good friends then.

  ‘Yeah, I’m satisfied wiv the way fings turned out, George,’ he replied. ‘They’re all good kids, an’ Nellie’s a diamond.’

  Galloway finished his whisky and then reached for the bottle. ‘’Ave anuvver drop, Will,’ he said, filling his own glass.

  William shook his head. ‘Better not. I gotta check on the feed, an’ there’s the end stable ter clean out.’

  ‘’Ow’s the cob?’ George asked, the whisky bottle still held in his hand.

  ‘Carrie’s asked me if she can walk ’im in the yard this evenin’,’ William replied. ‘’E should be ready ter go back in the cart termorrer.’

  George swallowed the contents of his glass and pulled a face. ‘She’s a good gel is your Carrie,’ he went on. ‘I only wish my two lads would take as much interest in the business. I’ve spent a small fortune payin’ fer ’em both ter get an education at that private school. Admittedly it’s knocked the rough edges orf ’em an’ they both speak like a couple o’ toffs, but I want the lads ter give the firm a bit o’ consideration, Will. After all, I’m not gonna be around ferever. If those two lads o’ mine put their minds to it, this business could grow. There’s quite a few new firms springin’ up in Bermon’sey, an’ there’s a lot o’ trade ter be done cartin’ stuff back an’ forth from the wharves an’ docks.’

  The conversation was interrupted as the firm’s elderly accountant walked into the office mumbling a ’good morning’ as he hung up his rolled umbrella and Homburg before sitting himself at the far desk.

  Horace Gallagher had been with the firm since the very beginning and he had managed to stay aloof from the day-to-day problems of the business, applying himself singlemindedly to his job of keeping the books up to date and dealing with the men’s wages. As he prepared himself for the day’s work he removed his thick-rimmed spectacles and polished them with his pocket handkerchief, a habit he constantly resorted to. Galloway watched the man’s pallid, expressionless face for a few moments with amusement, comforted by the knowledge that whatever secrets or peculiarities he might have, Horace Gallagher was a conscientious accountant.

  William tried to find a reason to leave. He was aware that Jack Oxford had been working the chaff-cutter and knew that once the man had run out of hay he would most probably find himself a warm corner in the loft and drop off to sleep, instead of getting another bale from the shed.

  The sound of iron wheels and the clip of hooves over the cobbles gave the yard foreman an excuse to get up and go to the door of the office. Soapy Symonds had driven his horse and cart into the yard. As he jumped down from his seat, he pointed to the horse’s front leg. ‘’E’s gorn lame.’

  William thanked his boss for the drink and walked over to Soapy’s cart. He reached down and ran his hand along the horse’s leg, feeling the soft swelling. ‘’E’s got a bucked shin,’ he said, straightening up. ‘We’d better get a poultice on it. Take ’im out o’ the sharves, Soapy.’

  The carman mumbled to himself as he undid the harness straps and led the limping animal across the yard. The prospect of spending the rest of the day in the yard did not please Soapy. He had been on contract to the rum merchants in Tooley Street, and most afternoons after he picked up a load of barrels from the Rum Quay at the London Dock he would get a tot of the strong dark spirit. Today he would have to forgo his drink, and instead would most likely end up helping out on the chaff-cutting with that idiot Jack Oxford.

  He had guessed right, for as soon as the horse was settled in the stall William pointed to the loft. ‘Take anuvver bale of ’ay up ter Jack, will yer, Soapy. An’ tell ’im no dozin’ on the job. Galloway’s in the office.’

  Chapter Two

  On Tuesday morning at number 10 Page Street, Florrie ‘Hairpin’ Axford was entertaining her longtime friends Maisie Dougall and Aggie Temple. The trio sat in Florrie’s tidy front parlour sipping tea, and Maisie was holding forth.

  ‘Well, accordin’ ter Mrs Tanner there’s anuvver load of ’orses comin’ in soon,’ she was saying. ‘She don’t know exactly when but yer can bet yer life it won’t be long. I reckon we ought ter put a stop ter that Galloway runnin’ ’em up the street.’

  Maisie’s friends nodded in agreement and Aggie put down her teacup. ‘Somebody’s gonna get killed before long, mark my words,’ she declared with a severe expression on her face. ‘If it ain’t Will Tanner it’s gonna be one o’ the kids. It’s bloody disgustin’.’

  Maisie put her hands into her apron pockets. She was a short, plump woman in her mid-thirties. When she was ten years old she had been orphaned and sent to a home for waifs and strays, and at fourteen she went into service. Her outspokenness and forthright manner had not endeared her to her employer, however, and after a few weeks she found herself back on the streets with just a few coppers in her pocket. Maisie was determined not to be beaten by circumstances and she walked the whole distance from the grand house in Chislehurst to the little backstreet in Bermondsey where she had grown up. Hungry and blue with cold she arrived at the house that had once been her family home and stood staring at the door, feeling suddenly lost and alone.

  When Bridie Phelan had seen the pitiful figure standing outside the house next door she immediately recognised her and felt that she had been given a sign from heaven. Bridie had never forgiven herself for allowing Maisie to be taken away when her mother died, and now there was a chance to make amends. She quickly ushered the young girl into her parlour to warm her and feed her, and on that cold night Maisie was given a new home. Maisie had grown to love and cherish Bridie and she repaid her kindness in full, caring for her until the day the old lady died. Maisie and her docker husband Fred still lived in Bridie Phelan’s house.

  Maisie leaned forward in her chair, her large eyes dark with anger. ‘I was sayin’ only the ovver night ter my Fred - why don’t they run them ’orses while the kids are at school? It’s always in the late afternoon. Yer can’t expect the kids ter stay i
ndoors. My Ronnie an’ Albert won’t stop in.’

  Aggie recrossed her tightly laced leather boots, and nodded. ‘Well, if I ’ad any kids I’d be terrified. The sound o’ those ’orses clatterin’ up the turnin’ scares the bleedin’ life out o’ me. Some o’ them beasts are wild, an’ I can just picture that Tanner feller goin’ under the ’ooves.’

  Florrie brushed some imaginary crumbs from her spotless apron and fished into her pocket for her snuff box. A good-hearted woman in her early forties, Florrie had been widowed when she was twenty-five. She had married again five years later but her husband ran off after less than a year of married life. Most of Florrie’s neighbours did not blame her for the break-up, only for her choice in men. She was a tall, lean woman with grey hair and sharp features. Like Aggie, Florrie had never had children, although she was the street’s midwife, confidante, and a good friend to any of her neighbours who were in difficulties.

  Florrie loved snuff and was never without her ‘pinch’, which she kept in a tiny silver box. Rumour had it that she had trained as a nurse but left to marry her first husband who had knocked her about before taking ill and dying of peritonitis. After he died, Florrie had taken to drink for a time and was always to be seen in the Kings Arms. One evening a fight broke out in the public bar between some dockers and carmen. The carmen were getting the worst of the exchanges and one of them smashed a bottle on the counter and advanced on a docker, holding the jagged bottle’s neck in a threatening manner. Florrie stood up from her chair and calmly told the man to put down the weapon, but he brushed her to one side. When she had regained her composure she slowly walked up to him, removed a long steel hatpin from her hair, and without hesitating stuck the sharp end into the enraged man’s rump. The bottle fell to the floor as the carman screamed out and reached for his rear end, and both the drunken workers were ejected from the pub in short order. Florrie still wore the hatpin through her bun, but now she only took it out in public when she used it on Sunday afternoons to ease winkles out of their shells.