Part 11 (1/2)

The tea party finally broke up, and while Nellie turned her attention to the empty teacups, Maisie left to do the huge pile of was.h.i.+ng and ironing she had taken in and Aggie hurried home to put the duster over her spotless front parlour. Florrie meanwhile went away eagerly looking forward to starting on her list for the beano.

Carrie Tanner was looking forward to her eighteenth birthday, aware of the feelings stirring inside her. Often when she met Billy Sullivan on the street her stomach churned and she felt her breath coming fast as he stopped to talk, but there were times when she felt uncomfortable and miserable and was uneasy about seeing him. From listening to the other girls at the factory talking about the monthly curse she knew that they had similar feelings. She had also heard from listening to the older women that babies were made at certain times of the month and there were times when it was more likely to happen than not. The information she gleaned had left Carrie feeling confused. She had been experiencing her menses for some years now and knew what to do about them, but she had not been able to bring herself to ask her mother about how to avoid becoming pregnant.

It was lunch time and Wilson's workers were sitting in the ground-floor room eating their sandwiches when the subject of babies came up again. Freda Lawton was talking about the time she got pregnant.

'I went ter see this ole woman,' she was saying. 'The bloke what got me pregnant told me about 'er an' 'e reckoned she could get rid of it. I was only about two months gorn when I went ter see 'er an' I tell yer, the 'ouse stunk ter 'igh 'eaven. She was a scruffy ole cow wiv long straggly 'air. She looked like an ole witch. Anyway she give me this stuff ter drink. It tasted so 'orrible I was nearly sick right there an' then. She told me ter go 'ome an' 'ave a good soak in the tub. Trouble was, when I got 'ome me muvver was boilin' the clothes in the copper so I 'ad ter put the stew-pot on the fire. It took b.l.o.o.d.y ages an' before I 'ad enough water fer the tin barf I was sick. Me stomach was burnin' an' me muvver called the doctor in. 'E reckoned I'd bin poisoned. Anyway it never stopped me 'avin' me baby.'

Jessica shook her head. 'Some o' those people who get rid o' babies ought ter be locked up,' she scowled. 'There was this gel in Bacon Street Buildin's who got 'erself pregnant an' she went ter this place in Bermondsey Lane. This woman give 'er somefink ter drink, then she put this long knittin'-needle inside 'er. Nearly killed the poor cow she did. They couldn't stop the bleedin' an' she was carted orf ter Guy's. If I ever got pregnant wivout bein' married, Gawd ferbid, I'd sooner bear the shame than get rid of it.'

Freda nodded in agreement. 'Us workin' gels ain't got much of a life when yer come ter fink of it. We go ter work till we find a bloke an' get married, an' then we're pregnant in no time. Some are lucky an' don't 'ave many kids but ovvers 'ave one every year. The woman what delivered my baby was tellin' me about this young gel what kept gettin' pregnant. Ten kids she 'ad by the time she was twenty-seven. The woman told me she delivered every one, an' she told me that when she went ter the first confinement the gel didn't know a fing about 'ow babies get born. She even asked 'er 'ow the baby was gonna get out.'

Carrie had been listening intently to the conversation and she remembered some of the things she had heard said about birth control and limiting the amount of children in families. One of the women speakers at the suffragette meetings had mentioned setting up clinics for pregnant women and giving women more information about how to prevent unwanted babies. Carrie found herself becoming more and more confused as she listened to her friends. For some time now she had been thinking about what would happen if she walked out with Billy Sullivan and he tried to make love to her. What would he do if she said no?

'Would you let a boy 'ave 'is way wiv yer before yer got married, Carrie?' Jessica asked suddenly, interrupting her troubled thoughts.

Carrie shook her head. 'I couldn't. I'd be too frightened in case I fell fer a baby. What about you, Jess, would yer let a boy make love wiv you?'

'No fear,' Jessica replied quickly. 'If I got meself pregnant me farvver would chuck me out, I know 'e would.'

Freda smiled cynically. 'I remember sayin' that once, but I still got put in the pudden club. We're all the same. We say one fing an' mean anuvver. Take me. I was sure I wouldn't let a bloke take advantage o' me but I was wrong. I went out wiv this good-lookin' bloke an' I was feelin' good at the time an' 'e was very gentle. I remember it well. We was in the park an' 'e was gettin' 'andy. I told 'im ter stop it but 'e knew I didn't really want 'im to. Funny fing was, when we got around ter doin' it, I remember feelin' disappointed. It wasn't as good as I expected. I never went out wiv 'im after that one night, and as soon as 'e 'eard I was fallen 'e was off ter sea!'

'S'posin' yer liked a feller,' Carrie said to Freda, 'really liked 'im a lot an' 'e asked yer ter walk out wiv im? Would yer let 'im 'ave 'is way in case 'e never asked yer out again?'

Freda shook her head. 'I don't know, Carrie,' she answered. 'It all depends on 'ow yer feel at the time. Sometimes yer can say no an' mean it, an' ovver times yer tingle all over an' yer feel like yer on fire. All I know is, if yer do manage ter say no an' the bloke don't ask yer out anymore, yer ain't missin' much. Any bloke who finks that way ain't werf 'avin' in the first place.'

The whistle sounded and as they all trooped back to their work benches, Carrie found herself feeling more confused than ever.

Jack Oxford was feeling very pleased with himself as he trudged through the foggy February evening to Abbey Street. Ever since his accident he had moved from place to place, sleeping in doss-houses and on park benches during the summer, but now he had found himself a regular place to stay. He had always thought himself fortunate in having a steady job which at least allowed him to have a full belly, but how much nicer it was now to go into a warm house and sit down to a hot meal beside a roaring fire. Now there was no more worrying about getting his boots stolen or his pockets picked while he slept. Now he could go to bed between clean sheets and get a wash and shave without having to wait his turn to use the grimy stone sinks in the doss-house.

Jack had been very lucky to find Mrs Cuthbertson. She was a big, motherly woman with red hair and a wide smile whose wayward husband had suddenly left her for a younger and prettier woman. After a few weeks of dejection and loneliness Amy Cuthbertson had quickly pulled herself together. She had a large house in Abbey Street which she had inherited, and a little money put aside. She also had a shrewd mind and realised that there was money to be made by taking in working men as lodgers. Amy's one failing was her weakness for stout, and when she was suitably fortified with a few bottles of the dark brew she became very pa.s.sionate. More than one lodger had left her house due to her excessive demands upon him, and after each rejection she grew more determined than ever to find someone who would give her a little loving as well as the weekly rent. Amy had a strong streak of compa.s.sion in her make-up, and when Jack Oxford appeared on the scene it served him just a little too well.

There were three other lodgers in the house before Jack arrived but they were younger men who had come over from Ireland to work on building the railways and they usually kept themselves aloof from Amy. She liked older men, and when she spotted the yard man sitting mournfully on a park bench in Bermondsey Church Gardens one evening with a bottle of ale for comfort she was intrigued. The man looked as though he was earning a living by the state of his boots, and his sorrowful look prompted her to approach him. When she enquired casually about his general health and well-being Jack told her his past life history, his current position, and his intention of doing away with himself if things did not look up.

Amy had heard enough. She suggested to him that he might lodge in her house. That evening the yard man went to inspect his prospective room in Abbey Street and gave her one week's rent there and then. As the days pa.s.sed Amy Cuthbertson became more and more kindly disposed towards her lodger, and one evening she plied him with stout and took the startled inebriate to her bed.

The new arrangement suited Jack Oxford admirably, and Amy too.

As he walked home through the fog along Abbey Street, Jack whistled to himself. The house was warm as he let himself in and he could smell mutton stew cooking.

'I'm in the scullery, deary. Tea's nearly ready,' Amy called out.

Jack ambled into the front room and flopped down in an armchair with a blissful sigh. He just could not believe how lucky he was.

Across the street Arthur Cuthbertson s.h.i.+fted his position in the shop doorway and scowled as he stared over at the house. Some of the people in the neighbourhood were still friendly with Arthur, and from what one of them had told him he had good reason to worry. Amy had found herself a bloke and they appeared to be very happy, he had been informed. Since his new lady friend had walked out on him, Arthur had realised he made a mistake in leaving Amy. He had been intending to go back to her cap in hand, hoping for a reconciliation, but this seemed unlikely now that she had found herself a new man. Well, there was only one thing to do, he decided. Amy's lodger would have to be frightened off if there was to be any chance of getting back with her. He would give them time to have their tea and then he would make an appearance, he told himself, fingering the piece of lead piping which was tucked into his wide leather belt.

After he had finished his meal Jack settled himself beside the fire and rested his feet on the bra.s.s fender. He sighed contentedly as he leaned back and closed his eyes, not taking any notice as Amy got up to answer the loud knock.

Her scream brought him upright in his chair, and as the bulky figure of Arthur pushed his way into the room brandis.h.i.+ng a length of lead piping in his large fist Jack knew instantly that he was in serious trouble.

'So you're the wh.o.r.eson who's took 'er from me, are yer?' Arthur growled at him, moving around the table to get at him.

'I ain't done nuffink,' Jack cried, trying to keep the table between him and his a.s.sailant.

'If I get 'old o' yer I'll maim yer, yer dirty ole goat!' Arthur yelled.

Amy was trying to hold her estranged husband back, with little success. 'Leave 'im alone, yer cowson!' she screamed. 'Yer p.i.s.sed orf an' left me fer yer fancy bit an' now yer want me back. Well, I ain't takin' yer back, yer scruffy git. Go on, get out!'

Amy's outburst only made Arthur more incensed and he brought the lead pipe down on the table with a loud crash. 'Keep still, yer dopey b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' he roared at Jack. 'Let me get at yer! I'll do fer yer, I swear I will!'

With Amy holding on to Arthur's arm, the terrified yard man saw his chance to escape. He made a sudden dash for the front door and stumbled out into the foggy street. By the time Arthur had freed his arm Jack was halfway along Abbey Street, looking over his shoulder fearfully as he hurried along, his stockinged feet pattering over the wet cobbles.

Jack Oxford's cosy evenings had been terminated by the sudden appearance of Amy's wayward husband, and as he leaned against a gaslamp to catch his breath he pondered over what he should do next. It was no night to be sleeping rough, he thought with a shudder, and it was unlikely he would be able to get a bed at a doss-house now. There was only one thing to do, he decided. It would have to be the Druid Street arches.

Jack hobbled on along Abbey Street and turned into Druid Street. The fog was getting thicker now and he cursed his luck as he slipped into a narrow alley and then shuffled over rotting garbage and rubbish. He could see the glow of a fire ahead and then the huddled figures sitting around it. 'Any chance of a warm?' he asked timorously as he reached the group.

'Why if it ain't ole Jack Oxford,' one of the men said, grinning widely as he saw Jack's stockinged feet. 'Sit yerself down, mate. Wanna drop o' soup? It's bacon bones an' 'tater peelin's an there's a couple o' crusts left.'

Jack sat down on the plank of wood which served as a bench and rubbed his sore and frozen feet as he looked around at the four men. They were all familiar to him beneath their beards and unwashed faces. The man who had welcomed him handed over a tin of watery liquid and a stale crust of bread which Jack accepted gratefully. He had eaten his fill earlier but the cold had penetrated up from his feet. As he sipped the hot, greasy soup and chewed on the bread, he felt a little less sorry for himself.

'What 'appened ter yer boots, mate?' the man asked.

Jack felt a little embarra.s.sed about telling them the full story and shrugged his shoulders. 'They wore out,' he said simply.

The man facing him chuckled through his huge black beard. 'We're all wearing out, friend,' he said, poking a stick into the fire and putting it to his stained clay pipe. 'Trouble is, it's always the wrong way round. We wear out from the ground upwards. I've always said we should start the other way round.'

Jack's host nudged him with his elbow. 'Bernie's a clever old c.o.c.k. 'E used ter teach the kids at Webb Street ragged school, didn't yer, Bern?'

The bearded man stared into the fire not hearing, his pipe locked between thumb and forefinger. ''Twould be a mite more merciful that way,' he said quietly. 'When the mind goes, the rest doesn't matter. Just think, we could sit here in front of the fire in sublime ignorance. We would neither understand nor care about the circ.u.mstances of our plight. We'd all be happy souls, indeed we would.'

'Bernie lost 'is position at the school, didn't yer, Bern?' Jack's friend remarked.

'The great poets understood,' Bernie went on, ignoring the interruptions. 'Milton, Shakespeare and the like. They were all aware.'

Jack yawned. He did not understand what Bernie was saying but he was aware of one thing: he was not going to chance going back to Amy's house to collect his boots, not now that her maniac of a husband had returned. The bacon-bone and potato soup had warmed his insides and the heat of the fire felt pleasant on his aching feet. Maybe he should never have forsaken the doss-houses for Amy's place, he reflected. At least he could have protected his boots with the bedposts. Jack closed his eyes and soon sleep blotted out the circ.u.mstances of his plight.

At the Tanners' house William was lounging in his chair and Nellie was sitting facing him, busily darning a sock. 'Yer not goin' in the yard ternight, are yer, luv?' she asked.

William shook his head. 'There's no need,' he said. 'Everyfing's all right.'

Nellie got on with her darning and William closed his eyes. It was a habit he had adopted when he wanted to think. Nellie was always quick to notice when he was worried and by feigning sleep he could mull over his problems without being disturbed.

It was something Geoffrey had said that morning which was worrying him. 'I think the old man should seriously consider buying a couple of motor vans, Will,' he had remarked. 'Most of the carters are getting them. If we fall behind we're going to be left to pick up the work no one else wants, and at a lower price.'

William pondered his own position. He had worked with horses since he was a boy and had spent more than twenty-seven years with Galloway's. He knew nothing of motor transport, and if the horses went so would his job. George might let him stay on, but for what? Would he end up taking over Jack Oxford's job? Then there was the home the family lived in. What would happen if he was put out of work? Galloway would no doubt employ someone to look after the motor vans and might well offer that person their house as an inducement.

William's forehead wrinkled as he thought about his future and he s.h.i.+fted uneasily in the chair. Nellie had been looking at him for a while. She lowered her eyes again to her darning. She knew that when her husband slept, he snored. He was awake and there was something troubling him, she knew. Will was always loath to talk about his worries and had been that way ever since she had known him. How long was it now? she thought suddenly. Almost nineteen years since they had walked down the aisle at Bermondsey Church. Then Will had been a handsome young man with a proud swagger. He was a good man who had provided for her and the children and she had tried to make him happy during their years together.