Part 16 (1/2)

'We've 'opped the wag. We're gonna go an' play down the wharf,' the first lad told him.

'Well, why don't yer go an' do that then?' Sharkey said quickly, wiping his hands on a piece of filthy-looking rag.

''Cos we're watchin' yer grease that axle.'

'Well, I'm done now so yer can p.i.s.s orf.'

'That load o' yours don't 'alf stink, mister.'

'Well if yer don't like the smell, what yer 'angin' around 'ere for?'

'Got a tanner?'

'I'll give yer a clip roun' the ear if yer don't p.i.s.s orf,' Sharkey told them, waving the grease stick in their direction.

The lads looked at each other and realised there was nothing to gain by staying. 'We're goin' down the wharf now,' the first lad said. 'Can yer give us a ride?'

Sharkey made a threatening gesture and the two boys ran off laughing.

The squeaking had stopped now and the sun had come out. The horse plodded on towards the tannery in Long Lane, its head held low. The miserable carman spat a stream of tobacco juice from the side of his mouth. Things couldn't be much worse, he groaned to himself. His wife Margie was constantly moaning about the smell when he walked into the house, Phyllis had said she wouldn't see him anymore until he changed his job, and her husband was threatening to do for him. Over twenty years he'd worked for Galloway and now he was reduced to carting stinking hides. Maybe it would have been better if Galloway had put him off, he thought. At least he wouldn't have ended up smelling like a polecat.

The axle started squeaking again and Sharkey cursed. He could see smoke coming from the wheel-hub now and the wheel itself was beginning to seize up. He could see the factory gates up ahead and gritted his teeth. He knew that he should pull up and douse the wheel with water but that would take time and he was already running late as it was. If he could make the factory yard he would be able to see to the wheel while they were unloading the cart, he reasoned. There were only a few yards more to go when the axle snapped and the cart tipped violently to one side. Sharkey grabbed the rail of the seat and held on tightly as the full weight of the wet hides tore the side out of the cart, spilling the whole load on to the pavement directly outside a public house.

Things had been quiet in the Galloway yard until the phone rang. Barely a few moments later the firm's owner came to the door of the office and bellowed out for his foreman. 'Sharkey's tipped a load o' skins outside the Anchor in Long Lane,' he shouted when William walked into the office. 'The lan'lord's goin' mad. 'E's got skins a foot 'igh outside 'is doors an' n.o.body can get in or out. I tell yer, Will, if that's down ter negligence, I'm sackin' Sharkey on the spot, an' I won't be swayed this time.'

'What 'appened ter make 'im lose the load?' William asked.

'Sharkey reckons the axle snapped an' the side's tore out o' the cart,' George growled. 'I've got the fellmonger's men movin' the load, an' the wheelwright in Long Lane is seein' ter the cart. I wanna talk ter Sharkey later. If that wheel over'eated, I'll murder 'im.'

At five o'clock a bleary-eyed carman drove his patched-up cart into the yard and walked unsteadily into the office. Galloway was waiting for him with a glowering expression on his face. ''Ow come yer let that wheel smoke?' the owner snarled.

Sharkey shrugged his shoulders. 'I'd almost reached the factory.'

'I've just about 'ad enough of yer, Morris. Yer finished, d'yer 'ear me? Yer can take yer cards,' Galloway shouted at him.

Sharkey smiled calmly. 'Funny yer should say that, Guv'nor. While the men were clearin' the load I went in the Anchor fer a drink ter steady me nerves. Who should be standin' at the counter but Sammy Spanner. Yer don't know Sammy Spanner, do yer?' Galloway's eyebrows knitted. ''E's the union man fer Tommy 'Atcher's. We 'ad a good chat, me an' Sammy. I told 'im about 'ow I got ter cart stinkin' skins around 'cos o' the trouble wiv the rum firm, an' about 'ow yer used ter go on about not 'avin' the union in 'ere at any price. An' yer know what Sammy said?'

'I ain't interested in what Sammy Spanner said,' growled George.

'Oh, ain't yer?' Sharkey grinned. 'Well, yer ought ter be. Anyway, yer ain't sackin' me, 'cos I've jus' put me notice in. I'm gonna work fer Tommy 'Atcher on Monday, so yer can poke yer skins.'

Chapter Eighteen.

Carrie had settled into her new job at the dining rooms and soon became very popular with the carmen and river men who frequented the place. They were all pleased to see a pretty face behind the counter and enjoyed bandying friendly remarks and exchanging cheery smiles with her. Fred Bradley was very pleased with the young lady, too, and did not fail to notice that trade was beginning to improve. The customers were hanging around more lately, which usually meant an extra mug of tea and sometimes another round of toast.

She was happy in her new job and the days seemed to fly past. Every morning she served tea and took the food orders, and when trade quietened down in the lull before lunch-time she cleaned the tables, filled the salt and pepper pots and brewed fresh tea. She presented a pleasant picture with her long hair pinned securely to the top of her head and her flowered ap.r.o.n tied snugly at the waist. The younger carmen and river men often made advances and offered to take her on a night out at a music hall. Carrie was careful to put them off without causing offence. For her, life was simple and uncomplicated, and she was enjoying it that way. She had not even gone to any marches for the women's movement lately, although she still remained committed to the cause. Occasionally she was tempted to have a night out with one or other of the young men but always resisted the urge. Her experience with Billy Sullivan had aroused confused feelings within her and now she was determined to wait until the time was ripe and she was sure of a young man. She had seen Sara on a couple of occasions recently. She was now going with a young lad and talking of marrying him. Jessica from the leather factory was getting married soon too, and Mary Caldwell, who had left Wilson's to work for the WSPU in their South London Offices, had given her news of Freda. Despite her bad experience in the past she had become pregnant again but this time she was going to marry the young man. It did not worry Carrie that she was approaching twenty-one and was still single while lots of her friends and acquaintances were talking of marrying and having children. She felt she was in no hurry.

The cold winter days brought more trade and Carrie was kept very busy. One chilly morning Sharkey Morris pulled up outside in his brand new cart. As he put the nosebags on his pair of greys, Carrie saw him from the window. She had always liked the unkempt carman and had not forgotten that it was he who had first mentioned the job at Bradley's Dining Rooms. When he sauntered in, she had a mug of tea ready for him.

'Cor blimey! 'Ow yer doin', young Carrie?' he asked in his usual loud-voiced way.

She pushed back the two pennies he had slapped down on the counter. 'It's much better than the factory,' she smiled. 'What about you? What's Tommy 'Atcher like ter work for?'

Sharkey grinned widely. 'Much better than workin' fer that ole git Galloway,' he replied. 'I feel sorry fer yer farvver 'avin' ter put up wiv 'is b.l.o.o.d.y moanin'. When yer see 'im, tell 'im there's always the chance of a job on our firm. I've already spoke fer me ole mate Soapy.'

A line was forming and Carrie quickly had to get back on with serving tea and taking orders. When she finally sat down in the back room to eat her dinner at one-thirty, she realised that she had been on her feet attending to customers non-stop since eight o'clock that morning.

Two months later Fred Bradley called his young worker into the back room just as she was leaving at the end of the day and told her that he was making her money up to one guinea a week. Carrie felt gratified. She liked Fred and had settled into the job and was now a firm favourite with the customers. Sharkey Morris had pa.s.sed the word to his fellow carmen about the coffee shop in Cotton Lane. He told them they served large toasted tea-cakes and bacon sandwiches made with new crusty bread and mugs of strong tea for tuppence. He also warned them that he was keeping an eye on the nice young girl who worked there.

Things at the Galloway yard were quiet during the cold winter months. Soapy Symonds kept himself out of trouble while he waited to get the word from Sharkey, and Sid Bristow, the other long-serving carman, got on with his work and wondered when his turn would come to be sacked. Four other carmen were employed by Galloway on a casual basis, and William Tanner was becoming more than a little depressed and unsure of his future at the yard as he got on with his job of keeping the horses fit and the carts in good repair. He had, however, been successful in gaining the confidence of the gelding. It was now established in the trap and Galloway was stabling the animal at the ostler's behind Tyburn Square.

Carrie missed going with her father to the yard at weekends to feed and tend the animal but Jack Oxford was secretly pleased. He had never taken to the 'bay devil', as he called it, and whenever George Galloway brought the horse into the yard, Jack kept out of its way. The yard man had another reason for feeling pleased that the horse was no longer stabled there. The doss-house he frequented now played host to a group of Irish labourers who were employed on building the new railway, and they often came in at night the worse for drink and sat playing cards until very late. The labourers were paid on Fridays and on these nights Jack often felt driven to forsake his lodging-house for the peace and quiet of the Galloway stables. Getting into the yard was no problem. He had previously loosened one of the long planks in the fence that backed on to the rear alley, and with some manoeuvring found he could squeeze in and out. Jack's favourite place to sleep was the small stable at the far end of the yard. Straw bales were stored there and they provided a comfortable bed. It was also much cleaner than the chaff loft.

One cold Friday evening Jack Oxford sat in the public bar of a pub in Abbey Street, moodily contemplating his pint of porter. His thoughts drifted back to the little place along the street where he had spent a few happy months before the man of the house's unexpected return. The few pints he had already consumed made him feel depressed and he yearned for company and a quiet chat. The public bar was beginning to fill with Irishmen from the railway workings, obviously in a jolly mood. As they became more inebriated their voices rose and they began to sing patriotic songs. A group of elderly gents started up with their own version of a c.o.c.kney song and Jack decided it was time to leave.

The night mist was thickening as he ambled along Abbey Street and suddenly remembered the time he had dashed along the same route without his boots. The memory of that night led Jack to think about those old friends whose fire he had shared, and he decided it might be nice to pay them a visit. They were always good for a chat, he thought as he turned into Druid Street and made his way under the arches. He soon saw the glow of the brazier and the huddled figures, and as he approached he recognised the bearded figure of Bernie the exschoolteacher. Harold was there, too, and Mois.h.i.+e. The other figure was a stranger. It was he who waved for Jack to join them. 'Sit yerself down, friend,' he said in a deep voice. 'We're short of wood ternight but the fire'll last a while yet.'

Jack sat down on an upturned beer crate and held his hands out to the fire. 'I come fer a chat,' he said, looking around at the group.

Bernie stroked his beard. 'Well, you've come to the right place, my friend,' he said. 'Convivial company and cultured conversation can be guaranteed. It's money we're short on.'

Mois.h.i.+e poked at the fire with a stick. 'I wish I 'ad the price of a good bed ternight,' he grumbled. 'When this fire goes out, it's gonna be b.l.o.o.d.y cold 'ere.'

Bernie chuckled. ' ”It was cold, b.l.o.o.d.y cold, in Elsinore.”'

'What's 'e talkin' about?' Mois.h.i.+e asked.

'Search me,' Harold said, taking a swig from a quart bottle of ale.

'Hamlet. I saw it once at the Old Vic. Marvellous performance,' Bernie declared. 'Sir Seymour Hicks played Hamlet, or was it John Whitehead?'

'I'd sooner a night at the Star Music 'All meself,' Harold said, taking another swig from the bottle. ”I've seen some luvverly shows up there. I remember one night they put on a show called ”The Gels from Gottenburg”. Smas.h.i.+n' songs. Brought tears ter yer eyes, some of 'em.'

Jack took the bottle from Harold and put it to his lips. The beer he had already drunk and the cold night air were making him feel a little light-headed. He burped loudly.

Harold was studying him closely. 'I thought yer'd be tucked up at the doss-'ouse on a cold night like this,' he remarked as he took the bottle back.

Jack shook his head. 'Fridays are bad nights at the kip'ouse. I try ter stay away from there then. I've got meself a nice little nook ter kip down in,' he said, touching the side of his nose with his forefinger. 'It's quiet an' there's n.o.body ter disturb yer.'

'Do they take guests?' Bernie asked, pulling his tattered overcoat collar tighter around his neck.

Jack gazed at the flames. He had shared their fires before, and their refreshments, he conceded. Maybe he could repay the compliment. It would be a friendly thing to do. 'I might be able ter get yer in,' he replied. 'Yer'll 'ave ter be quiet, though. It's private property.'

When the last plank had burned through and the flames died to glowing embers, Harold drained the bottle of ale. 'Shall we go, gents?' he said, burping. 'Anywhere'll be better than this arch wivout a fire ter keep us warm. The wind fair cuts frew 'ere.'

'Lead on, Macduff,' Bernie said, rising from his egg crate and b.u.t.toning up his overcoat.